My skin is made of sentient thorns,
coated with well lived words
and a patch of forget-me-nots,
which shields all that grows
in the chambers of my heart.
Once upon three forevers ago,
while my hips were lines
and my chest was too new to feed
anyone but me, I believed
my forget-me-nots were too dear,
too costly for me to afford a blooming coat
that could cover me from thought to step—
then and now, I’ve been wrong
so many times. The flowers do cost,
but deep-deep-deep, under my thorns,
forget-me-nots grow wild and free.
Where only I (and my chosen) can feel,
thorn turns to petal, love rules the field.
Outside, where hate often licks unseen,
my thorns are ready to impale its tongue,
to deny its rotting kiss.
a wee note…
The last few days have been emotionally charged to the brim. The horrors that touched France are rippling through the feeling world, making anyone (with a brain and heart) rage and mourn. I tend to cope with most of my raging and mourning, by morphing them into words. So I was thankful when Sanaa, over at Prompt Nights, asked for poetry that reminded us that “Hate’s a parasite that rots the Soul”. And at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Karin is “In the Market for Poems” that make us “Consider some kind of bargain, exchange, purchase, promise.” I’m also linking this piece to Poets United (Poetry Pantry #311).
“Frankenstein and Forget-Me-Nots”, by Winter Moon Vintage
(You can find this art print and much more on her Society6 shop. And if you delight in her work as much as I do, you might also want to follow her blog).