A lil poem about my favourite colour, and my constant sense of dread (I think?)
My blood is violet,
my aura, lilac,
amethyst around my wrist,
soft kisses and passive violence.
Sweet as jam,
the right kind of timeless,
heather in my hair,
as I hold onto healing.
I was once reeling,
reaching outside the raindrops,
until I took a break from myself,
deciding I could smile,
if I wanted to,
and that I could share sensual summers with Saints and spirits.
I am the daughter of Prometheus,
My cards are on the table,
telling me all the things that I already know,
weary sighs are my symphony,
as I sleep with my eyes open.
I am a widow of my own war,
sangria spills from my eyes,
and I am at peace with what I’ve done to myself.