| |
Waking up to the smog
Of new blood,
New danger in these sheets—something,
Someone else to hide from.
I meant to tell you,
I can’t take compliments—
I store them in a little yellow jar beneath the nightstand,
Maybe for another rainy, red day
When the sun won’t shine
Because there are too many insults
Crumpled up and stuck in the closet, some
Folded nicely—the ones I kept for shame or strength—
Others crammed between dingy pillow shams,
Still others pristinely preserved, or
Hurled angrily at the wall and clinging to the bubbly paint like Jolly Ranchers.
There is no jar for these. No hold. They keep
Spilling out and coating my tiny, ceramic yellow jar—the one that catches your
Compliments, flatteries, admirations—
With a sticky film, not so unlike
The thick, grey sky outside my window—
Or the viscosity of little bloody pulses
Cycling about my temples. Alternating sides of the head where
Those damages are also being calculated.
Julia Englund
|
|
User Rating: |
|
--
/10
(0 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend