Feathers
My insides are feathers; easily blown away, lost and forgotten.
I've been trying to find hands to hold them, but I can hardly even look at my own.
Trust is never found in bruised knuckles and bloody wrists. I know this. I know nobody's palms will be his palms no matter how many times I press them against my shaking body; no, they will never be his. I know this. My palms can still feel his palms holding my palms, holding me. My heart is bleeding. Every time I say his name out loud I feel his feathers stuffed inside my stomach push their way out of my throat. I picture him floating away while I am weighted down by my regret. It all moved too fast for me. I tried to hold water in my hands but eventually it all fell through. When it did, I lost my feathers too.
Copyright © Rose Marcel | Year Posted 2016
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