This artefact I've looked for years for,
was carefully unearthed
from its bed in rocks.
In blood crusted and cut
hands was a small vase,
fade hieroglyphics curved around.
A smile took shape
and imagination woven
in-between reality.
The clay vase, safely protected
behind a glass case.
News reporters shoving megaphones
in my face, flashed from cares
lit the museum, voices and questions
layering upon each other
until it sounded like static noise.
But, as soon reality pushed back,
and fear tugged along.
What if questions
morphed into angry demands.
what if someone bumped it
and the vase crashed to the ground.
What if someone stole it.
What if, what if, what if.
I took it back home
and hid it in workshop out back
where no one would find it.
And whenever imagination
began to lace with reality
of what my life could have been
if I showed someone.
Excuses took hold.
It's no polished enough,
there's still cracks that snake up the walls,
it still needed to be restored
to its former glory.
But in reality,
I was just scared
of what the future will hold.
YOU ARE READING
Violet Strings
Poetry"My lips burn to feel the pressure of her lips on mine." Violet Strings is an LGBTQ+ poetry collection that focuses on romance between two girls, coming out, her not being accepted in her family and how she deals with everything.
