Izzi Lynn

Ache

i. your chest is wound up like a tightrope suspended over a canyon, no room for a mistake, a misstep, a trip. there is something quivering, writhing, wet inside your belly. the crows are gathering outside and the house feels cold but it is summer. pain bites into your fingers and you look down. the key you are clenching so tightly opens no door. the key you need is lost lost lost. 

ii. there's a blossoming rose burning in your throat, it's growing thick like the dream-dark forests woven in your hair. it catches on your words and the tang of blood shimmers metallic in your mouth. your body is not yours- it never was- and you wish your spine was sharp like a scythe. you dream of honey and pomegranates soothing the burn in your chest. you dream of magnolias and thunderstorms and of cherry pits and the hum of honey-bees. every time you wake up you feel further from redemption than ever before. every time you wake up you pray that someday your dreams will come true. every day you wake up, you get more tired of having brambles in your throat and fish hooks stuck in your tongue. you are tired of fire-brand shackles chafing your heat-swollen skin. you are tired.  

iii. the salt of the sea spills from your eyes like the storm from which it harkens crashing against your thunder-strike ribcage. you are sick (you were never sick as a child you scream. but you are always sick, you always have been and you always will)- belly distended and deformed, feet blistered in the heat and red scales creeping up your legs like fire. i promised you safety but the promised land is not in sight and the journey is long yet. 



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