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Never Are

an ode to your small unbecoming

By Iris ObscuraPublished 2 years ago • Updated 2 years ago • 2 min read
Art by Iris Obscura on DeviantArt

frozen ember, seed pinned to glass -

why didn’t you come?

-

was it the world -

all dust and iron, sour with dreams left out in the rain -

or was it us?

caged prayers shivering in our throats,

laughter clawing its way through plastic smiles.

-

you were a glitch in the ice,

a twitch of warmth coaxed from frost,

but they locked you up -

a hostage of the lab’s white hum,

trapped in sterile trays and shadowless light.

-

there were two of you,

slivers of life set adrift in the cold -

one folded like paper under water,

bled out of existence with no ceremony.

they said that almost never happens -

but almost never is a lie

made up by the lucky ones.

-

and you -

the one who made it past the freeze -

they slipped you into her, soft as an apology,

and she took you in like fire takes to oil.

built a shrine of herself around you,

cathedral of blood and bone,

sheltered you under ribs that burned with want.

-

while she grew you,

I waged wars with the world -

hands raw from dishes and child-rearing,

mind blunted on spreadsheets and bills,

teeth bared to the mundane grind.

but I would have torn down every tower for you.

-

you would have been loved, fiercely,

by your sister -

or not at all.

two blades scraping their edges in the same drawer,

or sharpening each other to brilliance,

like sparks caught mid-flight.

-

did you hear us?

our plans stitched together with tremors,

our mouths full of broken promises?

was it the silence that drove you out -

the weight of waiting too bitter to hold?

-

did you choose to become something else -

a river threading itself through our nights,

soaking our sleep in what-ifs and might-have-beens,

a sadness too thick to swallow?

-

we won’t tell her -

your sister

who still makes up names for you.

her joy is a bright thing unsullied by ghosts.

but you - last of your batch,

small and unmade -

I wish you peace in your unbecoming.

wish you dreams that bloom in the dark.

you are loved -

foolishly, violently,

even though you never are.

.

sad poetry

About the Creator

Iris Obscura

Are you after "polite?"

Stable?

This is the wrong place.

Looking for the kind of beauty that looks like it crawled out of a fluorescent supermarket at 2:13 am and somehow asked you about meaning.

Read on.

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    Written by Iris Obscura