elise.writer

Our lips are made of daisies
and our cheeks are strewn in roses,
pressed to opaque lilac air,
knotted fingertips brushing
blooming beams of naked feuillage,
buds drafted in sunlight, welded
in his blurry hands

When the sun never sleeps
and the days are sweet and long,
I lay my body down in the river.
I open my eyes underwater
and see the stained-glass sky,
fragmented by ripples
and bubbles slipped from my throat.

The verses of how everyone treats her like she's
mad
psychotic
schizophrenic
deranged
etched between endless lines of
we've finally granted your request, finally respected what you're okay with

you know the days have become none less
than dully excrutiating when your instinct
beckons you to dread the sunrise.
that's why i favor the hour
and hours beyond
when the glowing giant of the sky
ducks beneath the mountains