4/4 in a suite of seasonal poems
she’s got frost on her fingertips
and a world she can’t wait to see
but it’s snowed in, and dark now
and there’s no point in trying to leave
she paints the world in bleeding colour
an apple-red flush to her cheeks
it’s all waiting out there
the big, wide world
where the doves flutter free
and no one ever stays home
but what if she doesn’t want to leave
what if the sky is dark, and cold
and here, in this small-town oblivion
is everything she knows
and she loves it, and she hates it
encases herself in ice, and snow
she’s a statue of a person
she’s a tired, broken home
she’s walking slow out the door
running her hands across textured wallpaper
woodsmoke and dust
and it’s melting fast
the kingdom she ruled, running down the river
she’s got eyes carved from glass
and tired, heaving lungs
with just enough steam left for one last dance
to old songs through a record player
and a shitty plastic christmas tree
one last night
to wash the blood out of her teeth
KRISHNA VASHISHT
A soulful poem!
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