The colours of the Autumn complimented
her faded summer skin as you pulled her in
to embrace her pouty puckered lips
which often trembled in terrible helplessness
outside of her flawless deception.
It must have been the faint tobacco
and mint breath she exhaled while she
bit your lower lip, or the queasy feeling every
time she pronounced your name with a
giggle that frightened your senses.
It must have been the promised path
she helped illuminate, or the rusty door
she opened to increase your perception,
to which she led you with sweaty fingers
interlocked that made you remain…
Please tell me you’re just feeling tired, ’cause if it’s more than that I feel that I might break — Dashboard Confessional
A clean sheet is a fresh slate
washed from the remnants of the past.
Stubborn stains dull its peak state,
like her self-worth that’s been harassed.
She had thrown it in the wash,
hoping the suds would drain the muck.
Insults, slurs, and all words harsh
cleansed by tears, sobs; whispers, “oh fuck.”
The clean sheet stretched mockingly
with the frame that holds memories.
Even for a while, it optimally
served her — freeing her from her worries.
But with her luck, the care and love
she willingly gave to the white
spread contaminates. Again, it shoves
her back to a defenceless fight.
The soaked sheet as a weapon for her fall:
she sighs, “why me, why not me, after all?”
©️Natasha Byrne 2020
I am blanketed by a sheet of Darkness.
It materialized leisurely while I was
Sure that I was immune; he was harmless.
Instead, he came and clasped me with his sharp claws
While I was unconscious. Delightful dreams
Of serene seas and tranquil terrains ceased
By the reality that curtained me with its seams.
My triumph of everlasting release
Is falsified by the ambush of Doubt.
He hinted that he would reappear, as
My optimism usually wears out.
I thought I was careful from his caress,
But he came uninvited, even though
He is absent from my agenda. At times,
We used to run home during dusk-
To avert the Pontianak that might
Allure us with its fragrant musk.
It may be pretty or hideous at sight-
We heard stories of being awaken
By an unearthly lullaby;
A female figure revealed- mistaken
For a mother. Facts nullify
When it turned: big, bloodshot eyes pierced
Through the black hair that blanketed its sick,
Spectral face. Unwelcome, with fierce,
Fussy strokes, it manipulated her
Occupied womb. The victim froze
In terror. With a high-pitched shrill and stir,
It vanished. She fell into a doze
So restless and disturbed by the sunrise
I push through each day optimistically.
A smile plasters on my face endlessly
As my posture remain practised from my
Mom’s words on the puppet paddle up high.
My weak knee quiver on the final hour,
But my planner show to overpower
That it’s not over; there are still things
I’ve yet to do. My reward and winnings
Will appear near dusk when the office clock
Strikes beer and tequila pressed on the rocks.
But first I’ll walk the dog, clean after two,
Surgically assess Jacobean too,
Practise glisser on the kitchen floor, while
The pizza makes its way before…
“No,” my mother wagged her manicured finger at me, and placed the butterfly clip on the nearest shelf. I moped and hated her for it. I cursed at the things she bought instead: a magazine and a bottled water. She would treasure that magazine until the gossips were ingested, excreted, forgotten. The plastic of the bottle would be empty, trampled on, and found on the shore where the current would arrive. I gulped back my tears, and through my skewed, tearful vision, I saw a butterfly clip on another girl’s head. Her golden locks were held perfectly together…
Avid learner of English Literature and a lover of metaphors