Written by Samantha Ellis
i long for the days
when my body was not a stranger to me.
when i did not worry about silent thieves
or malignant secrets tucked in the crevices
that exist between blood and bone.
i would fall asleep in my own embrace,
only to wake up and sit in the morning sun, cup in hand,
drinking up the passing seasons
and wiping the drips from the corners of my lips with a soft smile
and warm fingers.
now i fall asleep in uneasy rhythm,
counting each breath.
two beats for each strange ache,
one for every lingering pain.
when sleep finds me,
she finds me weak and shivering,
and so does the morning.
if i wake,
i do so bare,
the sheets shaken off by some ghost in the night and strewn on the floor
like flowers tossed from a basket by a youth’s wayward hand.
and so am i,
a dandelion child,
bloomed too quickly and
forgotten amongst the weeds,
feeling summer’s breath
and imagining that she’s growing
sick from the sun.