Smile in her wake
a story from my sadness
There once was a girl who sat all on her own,
curled up in her bed at a place she called home.
Her hair was unwashed and her eyes were all puffy.
Her nail varnish chipped, her clothes stained and scruffy.
How she looked did not matter at that moment then,
When she lived in her dreams, where she felt safe again.
The dangers and threats of the big world outside
Could cause no more harm when she chose to hide.
Her belly twisted and knotted just like in cat's cradle
And she swallowed back vomit like soup from a ladle.
Her troublesome mind, it ached and it throbbed
As she thought of the life that she had had robbed
The love that she longed for, she never was shown
Fields of emotion she had not ever known.
Cast into a sea of love and understanding
But she couldn’t swim and it was too deep for standing.
She spluttered and kicked as her limbs grew weary.
Her lips chapped and sore, her eyes fat and teary.
At last she decided to fight it no more
So the waves ate her up and spat her back on the shore
On the sharp, lonely beach, shivering, she lay
Dreaming and longing that she would see the day
Where her legs would adopt a layer of scale
And from the waist down she would have a fish tail.
The things she would do if that were the case
She’d glide through the water with such perfect grace
Causing ripples of laughter and smiles in her wake
Affection and passion with the waves as they break
She thought about drowning as she lay in her bed
And vowed if she finds ‘happy’ to quit when ahead.
Her last day will be filled with babbling fun
A warm hand in hers by the setting of sun
No fear or sadness creeping back in
No repeat of how her life has been.
A kiss on the forehead to wish her good bye
As stars start to appear, above, in the sky.
The people she’s known relieved of their duty,
Resuming their lives and their spectrum of beauty
No longer having to tiptoe thin ice
The difficult girl, for them, paid that price.
With her eyes closed forever she can dream of the sea
Swimming and splashing and smiling is she.
And now for a secret I tell only thee,
The girl in the story is none other than me.
About the Creator
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Ruby
My name is Ruby; I am 26 in human years, 9.2 hands. For most of my life I lived with my mum and her family on the outskirts of a beautiful village. Ours were knitted into a patchwork of fields, all fronted by an army of ancient woodland. Twisting chestnuts, regal oaks, shining birch, inhabiting our perimeters. My friend and I spent our days grazing the pasture, shaking off the flies and taking cover from the rain. We would run, play, we were well looked after and happy. When he passed away I moved. I stepped into the box and that was it. My familiar surroundings never returned. A new home, this one was at a farm; a far busier environment than I had existed in before. My new fieldmate was a mare, Vita. There were sheep in the field next to mine, they were noisy and messy but I didn’t object to the company. Life remained simple, I had no obligations. In the wetter months I’d still get mud stuck to my fetlocks and my coat still split into darts, In the summer the flies still bugged me. I had enough attention paid to me; haircuts and pamper sessions to keep me comfortable, an occasional visit from a dentist or blacksmith. I couldn’t complain about the life I lived. I had my share of carrots, apples, pats and strokes. I especially liked being scratched on my chest between my front legs. Simple suited me just fine.
By Florence Graham3 years ago in Petlife
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April has been a fantastic month for me in terms of writing endeavors. I’d like to share what’s been so great about it just as many other writers would do. Share successes. I’ve noticed other writers or artists have shared successes and when you just see the snippet of their success, it appears everything has been going right for them all along. But we haven’t seen behind the curtain, we haven’t seen their hard work and their failures and those months that were fraught with disappointment. In everyone’s case, it’s far from the truth. But for the outside observer it isn’t always apparent.
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