I sweep in the morning
the shreds of yesterday's fight
pieces of mirrors on the floor,
reflecting the red in my eyes
"Bunny eyes," they would say.
But can I not be an albino all the time?
During afternoons,
I'll clean the furniture
dust the picture frames with perfect smiles
wipe the tables where our feet had been
sometimes a shard still on it
and bleed me still.
I mop the floor at night,
to wash away the blood and tears
that exploded on afternoons.
I sweep in the morning,
clean in the afternoons,
mop at night,
picked up the pieces
of glass
on the floor
the pieces of you and me
and them
and everyone else
that walked the house.
I sweep, I clean, I mop,
I hide all the shards and pieces,
all the dust and the clutters
every tiny filthy thing.
Every day
this is what I do
tied and imprisoned,
forever cleaning
in this little box
you call home.
~
This is for everyone who has been clinging on to love when everything's falling apart.
This is for the lovers who fall out of love.
This is for those who are broken, but holding on still.
love, lira
YOU ARE READING
3:47
Poetrya random notebook that I'll fill with poems and stories to keep me busy (aka feeling productive) during quarantine. Stay safe and enjoy reading! ❤️
