bent, Not broken

 
i am
the interpretive dance
you couldn’t decipher
because you read with
airs in your teeth
splitting hairs
and turning grey
you needn’t floss
it won’t release
your closed mind—
as I
bent,
splayed out
flowing prose
and filthy abandon
your confusion
deepened
my understanding
and the angle at which
i performed my demi-plié 

 
 

Remember

 
Me?
I’m the notch you made
in the matchbook
they no longer make
a strike and burn
torn,
lit,
tossed,
forgot—
but I left my mark.
You cry out
in the night,
          and I know,
I soothed
your arm with the Dalí ink.
Now, when you rub
your fingers
across the worn
grooves as you sell
yourself the
dust-dreams
and motes
of the lost high
amongst your lows,
remember
I’m the match
and you’re
gasoline regret.

 

 


 

Grace Black is just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind. Grace writes poetry and flash fiction and has been published in various journals online and in print. Her first collection of poetry Three Lines: All That’s Left is available on Amazon. Find her on Twitter @blackinkpinkdsk.
 
Website: http://graceblackwrites.com/

 
 
 

Cover Photo: Ashkay Moon (https://www.flickr.com/photos/akshaymoon/)