How do you know that it's right?
How am I supposed to feel safe in these warm blankets when I once had none? Feel easy and hazy when girls in pants lied and girls in the lake wrote concern and grey skies
over text?
How do you know I'm okay?
I feel blades of yellow grass scratching at my ankles and hear music my dad liked on the radio. I breathe here but he breathes in a cage that has been dissolved since I turned 15.
How do you know that the past hasn't run faster than me, caught me and tumbled us both to the ground?
I feel the ground beneath me, but I breathe remembering both of our cages have dissolved. The ground is different now. Not sopped and muddy and excavated for bottles, but soft and lush and a blanket ever still.
Just because I don't trust the comfort does not mean it is gone, or even that it will leave. Your past may catch up but all it can do is watch on the sidelines as you, in full focus, keep moving.
You can remember the scars better than your skin but you won't worry them into fresh wounds.
YOU ARE READING
A collection of small poems (Lo fi beats and rain in the background)
PoéziaA unique collection of words, short poems, and sounds you could probably make with your mouth. Some of it is true, some of it is just a long metaphor for my fears and hopes. Either way, it's definitely coming from a place of growth.
