“You never write about bright things and calm meadows,”
She says laughingly, cocooned in white blankets,
Sipping on Bordeaux.
“You don’t mention honeycombs or the soft skin of your lovers,”
She whispers leaning closer, teasingly smirking
Over the covers.
And she’s not wrong, her sweet breath makes my shoulders tense
But I’d rather trade this all away
Than give my life a tinsel-lens.
She’s always right to call out my sad little trope of a life
Whenever I drown too fast in its glory,
Yet – I’d never be dressed in white.
“Hold back your “sorry”s before you paint my pages all vivid,”
I sigh, anxiously spinning a pen in my cramping fingers.
She feels so livid.
When I gather the courage to look back at her surprised face,
I don’t notice a tear or a wrinkle,
She knows she’s won this case.
“And you’ve been put in this world only to conjure the storms,”
She mumbles to herself, graciously, ferociously.
The bites in her stare come in swarms.
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 