“What did you do?!”

Yelled as a plate I dropped shatters

That memory blends with the next

Their prized little joy

Looking at me with a hidden smugness

As I am blamed for something I didn’t do

Kept quiet for her,

Not him.

“What did you do?!”

Scolded for trying to

Rip

The

Family

Apart

Dismissive. Unbelieving.

“What did you do?!”

Muttered as church eyes disapprove

If only myself was

**Enough**

**...

🤷

“I don’t want to stick out like a weed in a field of wildflowers”

What I’ve always felt,

Whether I voiced it as such or not

But maybe this is a new beginning

Beginning to learn and yet sit in the comfy acceptance of unknowing

Flowers,

I’ve always loved flowers

Wildflowers are _beautiful_

But what is a wildflower?

Maybe this is the beginning of looking around instead of searching

Looking at ...

Love is passion

A spark

Something that flows between us

Mine, deeper

Deeper than you’re aware

The spark of friendship

Your spark

The spark that lead

A spark that was the ember that lit the end of the tunnel

They say to love

Love is passion

Like a flame, burning true

Desire.

Well if desire’s a flame, I’m a goddamn wildfire

I wish you felt the spark of love

_That_ love

Felt that flame

Wish our f...

Another old poem, this one’s from August last year, fiction

If you were in a movie—

If you lived during—

Life is a movie

All that talk

What if you lived in a picture?

A picture

A slice, a capture, a freeze frame of time

Never to be recreated

What if you lived in a picture?

Forever preserved

A memory not to be lost

Unique

Unchanging

What if you lived in a picture?

Captured in a photo, enslaved...

A poem I wrote back in September, my mother and I have a better relationship now though <3

I titled this ‘A Mother’s Rage ; A Daughter’s Upbringing’ (it won’t fit in the title)

Your anger

Cumulative

The years before me

Rage burning

Your fire unleashed on me

The body of your pain

I spit with fire

Yours

You hate me with your pre conceived rage

I hate you with the rage you filled me with

We aren...

So originally I was following a prompt but it didn’t really get as close as I wanted so I’m gonna write a poem for that prompt instead! But here’s this little thing:

My hand leaves the cold metal of my door as I close it and then slump to the floor. It’s all I can do to look at my scratched up, shaky hands—I’m almost in awe, staring at my bare palms. I turn my hands over and my breathing quickens...

All around

Things to see

In them work, art work

Textured as a sculpture

Sharp edges carved

Blended with a brush

Vivacious as a photograph

Something to write a book about

Yet in me,

Nothing

In my reflection

The work of art is the mirror

Man made yet found in nature

In the rivers and ponds,

Streams and oceans

Perhaps at some point

I was art

A mirror,

Man made

But a reflection

Nothing of my own

N...