Named: Destiny Rules


She bathes in peach iced tea
lavender sprigs adorn her hair.
The long grass parts for her as she wades through summer fields,
knees stained green from the soil scoping holy heels
...daisies quiver at her touch.

Boys gaze at her on the sidewalk but this Monet girl has my name.
She's got my brown hair which goes frizzy in the rain and the coffee stains to match.
A birthmark in the shape of the UK on our wrists.
You know how sometimes the sun reminds you of your shadow, and you look down at your ankles and wonder how you ever lost it?
My alter-ego is one step ahead, but lost her shoe on the way,
like a diary entry skipped,
like the way letters bleed together in the scrawl of my script
hovering between the lines; always on the move.

I am bitter like lemons,
earl grey cools before touching my lips,
mourning some kind of Gemini twin between sips,
because my chapstick fell between the cracks
of my dreaming, and a truth I’d rather be without, looking like
a figure of a girl never fully sketched out,
charcoal greys the tips of my fingers.

and then I realised that such pretty pictures make no way for living: for the broken hearts and American Apparel tennis skirts that never quite fit
But I am not just frilly words in a silly soliloquy
I am more than the BRUISES and PETALS and STARS you attach to me
Do not paint me with your ideals!
I am more than a white girl screaming into microphones at open mic night, with too many similes with cliché after cliché spilling out her mouth. Silly me.

She says "you are not made of metaphors"
Instead I am a paradox of the fairytales whispered to me as a child when I was supposed to be asleep -
and the voice inside my mind mocking me, because my thighs refuse to squeeze into neat lilac pleats.

If you really want to wake a princess you must kiss the seeds into the her mouth and will the garden to rise from the ground.

No comments:

Post a Comment