February 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
I just found a poem that might as well have been written by someone else. I only know I wrote it because it’s in a book my daddy gave me – and my handwriting.
I’m guessing it’s from my Lana phase last summer but really I have no idea.
Fragile in pink satin.
It’s frayed at the hem
and she picks at it,
The city is so hot.
Open or shut, the insect-slapped window gives no relief.
She lays a cool crystal on her forehead.
Rose quartz against sweat.
Oh, the long days.
She could leave but the crowds frighten her.
She pushes the quartz into her flesh, liking the pressure.