Growing Up

You shed your skin with sinful ease as time runs to keep up.
Ten weeks worth of smashed cots burn bonfire-bright in your belly
despite the December rain. You throw his letters to the wind now,
you wash your own hair now.


These are not her words, they are yours. Grown up hands
paint grown up tattoos onto each morning;
Sometimes blood red and running, sometimes grey whispers.
Still, it is you sinking those day old fangs into the newborn week.

Everything hurtles past your midnight train.
You part the red sea and home applauds your curtain call like a laugh track;
The critics won’t caw until morning now.
You hold Earth between thumb and forefinger;

Where to next then?

by Isobel Riggs

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s