Do you see the problem?
I can’t write of things that people read.
Of death days, and sad days, and how to survive snowstorms in love.
I haven’t ever gone out in a snowstorm, I live in the warmest place.
I have never wondered if I’m a tree, with vines growing between my long hairs.
I have never painted red swirls on foreheads and palm-backs,
And wondered if that makes me stronger like my fate.
A tree-leaf just floated by, it winked I saw.
A real leaf it was, all green and no lies.
But if I wrote of it, and how the sunlight freckled it, just like it dimples my fat open hands,
Who’d read it? Not you. Not anybody.
I wear flats, old pink ones, heels make my heel hurt, and I hate to hurt.
But to read things that people like to read today and quote,
You’d think love was the farthest thing from their minds,
And hurt flows from letter to letter like a rampant bull, too young to tackle,
too strong to hold.
My colours, that I poured into each day of words, are fading now, look it’s past 9.
A palette of 49 premium shades, now scored over with a confused grey-black, science tells me
this colour is called dusk.
How can they not like to read? Of orange cake tops, sliced thinly just thinly
And look there’s soft yellow beneath, and little peeking red things which could be anything,
And white nuts baked golden within.
Black window frames, that capture some eyes, better than my eye through a white scratched phone lens,
Then white painted nails, frosted over in blue, squeezing shut friendships in long-missed
Of bananas in picture books, yellow on white pages,
And that damned sunlight dancing on brown splotches of skin.
Human skin, or the skin of apples, red-golden-brown and the occasional green.
How can a world an entire world be given up? Forego everything I can see.
To write about things you’ll forget tomorrow,
And then of course, forget me.
– the hibernating one