, ,


Once she wrote

flowers dangling from her pen

words dripping onto the pages

flowing from a place inside

that hid itself away

like a little girl punished in the corner

not allowed to dance or play

reading books

doing twirls in her mind

playing with friends

being loved in big warm imaginary families

inside two covers on pages that came to life

inside her mind

Writing was her interpretative dance

oozing all the hidden emotion,

dancing playfully…or lovingly…or angrily…

onto pages

Now, the words spit – projectile vomit

in between heaves and gasps

8 hands choking

throat closing

Choking on the very words

which beg for oxygen

thoughts dying to dance in the sunlight

choked back inside into oblivion

4 hands squeezing her heart

scrambling the flowers

4 hands ripping off the petals