Into the submission,

I crawled - hands and knees,

a hinge of witch blood,

the bark, bedded down -

me, a girl of impressionable root.

 

Hollowed, pumpkin scooped,

tendrils of my better seed,

caught the needle and the sap,

pulled into the wood –

I was a girl, 

like everyone said.

 

It came for me 

 to

hind my legs, fermented snaps

of scarlet - my bed,

a crochet of

 shrapnel

and tumble thread

 scolds upon my neck -

dissolving

 

me into water, muscle doped,

washing my hair with my mother.

I didn’t mean to hurt you,

my interlude rushed through

but you became a monster too –

 

taking me to the sea,

rinsing my brain with salt.

In escape,

 I bit the wreck, took the anchor

in my throat and entered the violet

through the close weight

of all the other colours;

ivy corsets and  the yolk bubbles

of a crowded nest, the black

that spread itself under the door,

and the red taxidermists

 

that entered me through my wrists.

Falling through alabaster,

cold truce and limb reborn –

a never held blue, looked on,

barely there,

bare and harmed

in softly grown years of despair,

quietly held in the charm

of his hidden heart – a Bunsen

heat, turned transparent.

We ate spears of plum meat

secured on a rose thorn

that curled up like a butterfly’s tongue -

impossible to hurt

vividly -

 

 

then sank away from each other,

the ghost tides watching on, whispering

know your limit and limit less.

I knew my deeper violet would come,

dragging me to the intimate sea,

a ball of indelible ink.

 

If she could speak,

if she could be a woman,

I would be Violet

and rid my mind of this infant

entered into, entered not -

 

clothe my serendipity

with precision of the heart,

exhibit my colours as ever changing moods

bound wthin

the gift of one concise light, knowing just who

 

I am and who I am not.