The idea that we
Are fossils of our own
Experiences sinks
Into my brain.
Like the bones,
Of my younger self,
Are just lying under
Skin.
It’s excavation
The popping of a pimple.
The repeated telling’s
Of “don’t pick”
You aren’t supposed to
Excavate yourself.
But who, other
Than me, do I
Trust, with that me
The ash buried
From the fires of a
Childhood body.
The bright piece of glittering diamond
That is the heart of who I am now.
Say someone else
Excavates.
Then they push aside the rubble
And smoke and ash.
All things stuck to clothing
And under finger tips.
They seek the diamond
To polish the imperfections.
Shine it up. Take it from its home
They show it off like
A gem of the ocean
But the reason it’s
Beautiful is because
It came from such a mess.
Protected
So no one knows
It’s merely
Pretty preserved
Glass.
About the Creator
Audrey Larkin
I'm a young arts professional who is finally sharing some of the poetry and prose I've written while working through grief and self reflection. Sometimes poetry is the easiest form to translate neurodivergent nuances. Why not use it?
Keep reading
More stories from Audrey Larkin and writers in Poets and other communities.
Runaway
Leather braced heroes labor up rocky levels trying to recapture a runaway princess, who scrambles over rocks that slip under satin skirts to scrape knees. Sneaking into fissures, breaching my home, a single sapphire slip-on shoe, seeking refuge in too sharp cave walls, to hide behind my body, big enough to close the cave mouth. Sword-scored scales dark as mountain shadowed stone, these plates blend into silk-skinned wings that fling me heavenward. She feels safe tucked between pages and prismatic pyramids and the crackling coal of my over burnt voice. We are mirrored but all switched around me, deep rumbles and accidentally singed words, and her, airy stories and sparking laughter. Nights she curls up against my fire-belly, mornings fishing towns for carrots, potatoes, apples and pears, afternoons learning where she can sit on my serpentine neck, evenings of her adding circular swirling words with small sticks of charcoal to my finished folios. Embers illuminate sunburnt vellum, small tongues fire-lick sticks of charcoal spread smoothly across pages, blank spaces ready to be filled with sapphire, ruby, and emerald painted images. Days laid out before us, images of brown leathered blackguards, her eyes, rolling like a bucking horse. Ruby magma from my gullet, that pushes past pursed lips to lick newly exposed bone. When the smoke settles, she still tucks herself between my forelegs, close to my fire.
By Audrey Larkin3 years ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.