You hold your words like a murderer’s knife,
And it’s dripping blood on abandoned beehives.
You poison the rivers with your crocodile tears,
And the green gardens die as the summer nears.
You cut all the ties to what I have created.
Each thing that I adored becomes a thing I’ve hated.
You break stories into half like dry branches,
But mine bends to the wind until I run out of chances.
You scrape the sanity out of my bones
Until the snow melts and the leaves change tones.
You drop me like a weapon after a massacre
Until people look at me and ask:
“What happened here?”
(But you, you never really have the answers,
To you we are all just pretty dancers.)
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 