It had engulfed her, forcing her skin to blister Flames whipped up in the folds of her skirt Smoke smothered her face Flames chewed her eyelashes to the root Her tonsils singed she couldn't always Talk
(Scream)
She had stood in a burning storm that turned her sky to ash
It wasn't that she couldn't take the heat (She had a metal lock box for her vital organs) It was simply time To stop burning
She makes graves for cinders She'll never write her stories in charcoal Again
(It's okay - just time to go)
---
Dawn christens her forehead She wrings out the fabric Of a million black nights Hanging on the line It will face an infant day
Squeezing her hand To make a fist The pink knuckles reveal cracks Red blood seeps into the white of her skin It soaks into the gauze covering the wound
Who called a cease-fire? And why didn't I get the memo? Pony express and carrier pigeons Came to relieve the night duty
(Now you can sleep)
---
Comb the pain from the cloth Not the wisdom gained From bitten lips and dilated pupils Misery sits like oil on water Pour it off
(Don't worry - the fat of her past is in her hips)
She pulls her hair down From the rubber-band that held it Snaps loose into cascades Waves that are free Time to keep moving on
About the Author
Emily Jean Habermehl is a licensed master social worker living in Austin, Texas. She started writing poetry in the 7th grade and uses her writing to explore issues of feminism, womanhood, death, sex, rebirth, illness, disability, and empowerment. She currently works as a counselor for a large non-profit agency. Visit her blog at: http://friscoshoes.blogspot.com. ...
My curse is my gift. My nightmares, deep sensitivity, and emotional instability gives the best (and most uncomfortable) inspirations I could ever have. For me, art is passion - and visions are the mirror, which show my feelings and connect me with the rest of the world. Read More...
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