Braiding myself with Loki
hurts in the best sense.
I twirl down and weave rounds
as He spins me,
dancing.
I leave my skin
against the grain of the wood,
My hair a carpet under foot.
Sheared to skull
His to fill
My lips igniting offerings.
Tag: poetry (Page 2 of 2)
Strands I washed,
full of heavy emotion.
Grief worn tangible
for a year
before I could bear
carrying less.
The ritual.
Braid cut off,
shaved close enough
to feel sunshine
kissing my temple.
A section of hair
given up
to hear better
what the rain cries about,
angels singing,
my God
and His laughter.
I sat beneath the shears
wondering
if I’d feel this horrible relief
had I done it sooner.
I believe in perfect timing.
Even tragedy
holds mirror
It is right.
Sheared down,
I am softer now.
I let go.
Quartz facets
speak.
I gather each voice
quietly.
Release.
Golden honey glowing,
a light draws me forward.
I run into the sunshine,
the starshine,
the moon,
wide open.
I reclaim myself
from lying too long
in the cracks
that were you and I.
Daisies grow.
His attention bat me
into the clouds.
No mind on heights.
My wings locked.
I fell from the sky
into the sea,
breaking through glass.
Memories,
webbed netting,
dragging me down.
Flightless lungs.
Scooping out water
with feathers.
Words burn the silence.
Tears quaking my body.
He loved my anger because it meant I was still his.
I loved it too for the same reason.
Vibrating cage bars
braced between my palms
aching from holding on too long.
My pride turned the key.
I still hold the ashes.
I stopped calling them passion.
Crushed stars beneath him.
dangling,
weightless.
Set down
on the back shelf,
still warm.
Drowning,
in devotion.
Dark all around me,
worm moon spilling open.
A blink of red.
I bent.
Ring around the iris.
Leaning into night.
Eyes meeting eye.
I wear the scent of the tree,
wet bark, freshly peeled back.
Tearing strips, I tie
I build my fort,
securing branch to branch.
Cedar leaflet canopy,
above me,
loud voices.
Plates rattle.
Legs, covered in dust,
my shirt twisted up.
Hair pasted to my neck and forehead.
Sticky skin. Warmth.
I stay.
No one calls me.
Sap drying on my hands.