Day 57 of 100 Poems/100 Days


They kidnapped me,
held me down,
feet kicking,
me screaming,
they split me open,
right down the middle,
saying, “your heart is counterfeit”;
not the engine that drives the tide,
not the one God set beating.

But still in disbelief, I resist,
my fingers turn into fists,
I beat them,
and I kill them.

I close my ribs back up,
but find something missing,
a lightness, a hollow, a gap,
the bones hold only themselves.

I run back to the ghost trees,
to their leaves swaying,
and crawl inside my treehouse,
praying I can still find the memory.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s