Rory Wainwright | + Follow Poet |
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The Vines Between Us

Her lips were cherry blossom pink, 
The remnants of the red 17 dye that escaped her lollipop as she melted it down to nothing between her teeth. 
She knew nothing of the boy watching her three desks over. 
She knew nothing of how he watched her with honey glazed eyes, 
Sinking them into the yawning abyss of her creaking heart, cherishing how it sounded like the crashing sea. 
It seemed to him that she had wild flowers growing out of her olive pale skin. 
They wrapped their luscious green vines around her cheeks and blossoms burst into full pink blooms every time she blushed. 
Every time she cried,
They wilted. 
    And wilted
        And wilted
            And wilted. 
She was a day dreamer and a night thinker, the sun wrapped her in a blanket
And the moon cradled her in sweet dreams. 
She drew off of the love of others. 
She belonged to no one, 
Who belonged to everyone. 
Her soul had no compass, no due north
and wings sprouted from her shoulders, taking her 
from land
          to sea
               and back. 
The wisps of lashes on her eyes closed and stayed for minutes as she dreamed about a far away place, 
Farther than three desks away from him. 
    Farther
        And Farther
                 And farther. 
Away from sticky hearts and sticky hands
Away from the theft that scratched her sickly sweet soul 
Away from world that crushed her. 
She let her words drip like melting icicles, like bubbling butter and melting candy floss 
She melted into nothing
Into silver 
        Into gold
                 Into iron.
She let the sun melt her skin into puddles, 
and the tall grasses scratched her beating heart, 
she ran 
        she hid 
                She hurt.
Her own mind swallowed her whole, and let her sink into the gooey green lagoon that filled her lungs. 
Fish swam and otters dove
inside the abyss that was inside the deep puncture that buried her whole.  
She opened her eyes as she chewed at the end of the dyed red stick, 
her tongue stained a full burgundy mess. 
Here she was, 
sitting in that uncomfortable blue chair,
still thinking, 
       still chewing, 
               still hoping.
?

Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019

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