The feelings have no edges.
They are smooth blue.
Blue like early winter, evening breath.
Vapor that moves through everything, unencumbered.
Memories, crisp, sharp and unceasi…
And my mothers voice is unwrinkled too.
It is silence.
She never warned me about smooth talkers,
Or the brooding, silent ones
Vanta Black.
She never told what opaque crimson meant.
So at fourteen, when I bled through my clothes.
I was perplexed at the ease of liquid leaving my body.
The smoothness of the violence.
Girl to woman, or something like that.
Ensconced in the seamless wet,
Entranced by,
A transition so smooth.
About the Creator
L
“By hell there is nothing you can do that you want and by heaven you are going to do it anyway”
Anne Spencer
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