Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Torn Pages

I tell people that I am an open book, but a book that needs translating,

because it’s easier than explaining why the ink has run and the pages are torn.

I just don’t let them look.

“The book is open…” I say

“But avert your eyes.”

They won’t understand.

I won’t know how to tell them.

Never mind.

I got lost in the forest last night,

just as the sun decided she had seen enough,

and tucked herself up into bed,

I was baited by dark, dramatic branches,

that all looked the same.

“Where am I going?”

is such an eternal question for me,

in a way that unsettles me,

because I don’t think I will ever have a satisfactory answer.

I used to wear pretty, pure dresses on a Sunday,

but I have been Grief’s girl for so long,

that god struggles to recall how I looked in white.

He doesn’t mind,

but he remembers it being so beautiful in a way that didn’t make him sad.

I tell him every day that I’m not sad,

I just don’t have permission to be happy.

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