I bleached my sheets,
though they were clean,
freshly placed upon the bed,
then ripped away a moment later by my mania,
an obsession that I have with weaponising my past against my fallen face,
pulling the trigger,
pushing the button,
smashing the galled glass and bathing in the shards.
Like a poppy,
I push through the damned dirt,
staring frosty mornings in the face and smirking as I grow,
going from one state to another,
glowing underneath the soil and water,
until I am ready to face the world.
Though I have survived so much,
with a stony soul,
stretching towards the sun,
I am still so fragile,
so vulnerable to the wind’s cruel gusts.
There is a passionate power from the sky,
that has his eye on me,
and this storm is so relentless.
My sheets are clean,
my petals in pieces,
soul all asunder,
because I’m under the impression that I can’t escape the pain that echoes on my bruised skin.