20 year old female writer of colour.
8
it starts off a blank canvas and
only takes an artist with a soft brush
to fall in love with the stroke
even when guided by rough hands the brush glides against
do you ever meditate on
how many petals you let
slip from your fingertips
and fall to their death
as you wonder
whether they
sure,
you water them as you tread but you
snap
every
stem
and
pluck all her petals -
I know,
sometimes we don’t understand each other
sometimes I hesitate to pray cos shit still haunts me everyday
like the monster in my head, you told me
clip your wings
and you will be free.
in a harrowing land
she roamed
unconcerned
gambled her carefree
for carelessness