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Blossom Brewer Poem
I've severed my conscious from the backplates of my brain. I’ve pleated vine and cord through the cracks of my rib, bedsores spreading across my ever-paling appearance. I haven't left this hole in weeks.
I get nauseous at my own proof of life, conviction, correction of every flaw flowing out the gaps in my crooked mouth. I let insecurity envelop me, so I hide. I hibernate through nightfall and shorter sunshine. I paint powder over blemishes and broken bones. I crave to be coddled in frozen droplets and sheer fabrics that cool my skin; But I can't bear to be draped in anything but harsh winter coats and the pudge that distorts my figure.
Maybe, I'm addicted to hatred. A taste so strong I can only starve it out of my system - though I'd drown in the taste of every regret I've shoved down. Every loss of control is sharp at the end, blackening my ivories and souring my savory-sweet till I'm all overt ailment and I can't salt the snow that strikes me.
Over time, I've been pricked and prodded. What is now only winter breath replacing empty calories down my throat. What was once soft snowfall is now avalanche, and I can't bring myself to do anything but lay down and freeze.
Copyright © Blossom Brewer | Year Posted 2025
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