Do you Have Room for a Hermit Crab?
A poem
Ten little legs leave trail on sand,
Follow me home, It’s just round the bend,
Find sea-shell discarded; feel it in hand
Ten little notches, brail for friend
Meet me at shore, at break in the sand;
An empty locket from one night spent
Broken in two, no picture of you -
Leave it behind, no salt in your wounds.
Trail turns cold, no friend to follow...
Legs grow stiff and heart grows hollow.
There’s room to live in hallowed chest
Ribs are a cage, a swallow’s nest.
No heart inside? nor ravenous fire,
Just string lights that twinkle to own desire
No hearty meal? Crack ribs with a thump.
Tear flesh with bone, your baggage to dump -
Another home that little legs carry
No place to discard, Charon to ferry,
Boat growing heaving, descending to bed...
Inklets of brail in language once dead;
Ten little legs that found a new home
Not made from seashells, lockets, or bone,
Etched in the stones from angry sea-foam
Labyrinth of hallways to call one's own.
About the Creator
Rachel M.J
Magical realist
I like to write about things behaving how they shouldn't ~
Instagram: Rachel M.J
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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