by Pop
Flames up the wall, she savoured smoke on her tongue
licking the paint off
sullied lollipop
ashes flying about like rose petals
a grey veil covered her hair
bride of coal and tallow
molten rings on her fleshless fingers
burnt to the ground is not enough
so you pick up the lighter.
Blood on the floor, she drew shapes on stained-glass panes
ripping the stories out
de-consecrated ground
tearing pages like confetti
bewitched creatures gathered on her shoulders
bride of curses and tales
languid whispers on her rubbed out lips
generational damnation is not enough
so you pick up the spell book.
Bleach over the fabric, she let the itch run rampant on her skin
flaying the touches away
reborn envelope
curves dripping like dew off blades of grass
sentiment pooled at her bosom
bride of flesh and senses
erased handprints off her torn open chest
shredded temptation out of gowns is not enough
so you pick up the cauldron.
Ivy wisps around the branches, she tightened the strands on the old oak
cutting the sap flow off
plucked skeleton
trunk split like parted lips
a scream curled around her knees
bride of filaments and soil
brought the tree down with coils of hair
ground into sawdust is not enough
so you pick up the axe.
Will you stand by the fire when it dies down, combustible exhausted, and allow it to slumber?
Will you close the book when you reach the final full stop, read through and out, and let it quieten?
Will you clean the cauldron when the mixture has evaporated, liquid turned weightless,
and scrape the burnt off its sides ?
Will you put down the axe when there are no more trees suffocating you, light reaching
down to upraised palms, and welcome the rusting of its blade?
Pop is a French writer based in Sheffield, UK. She mostly writes poetry, and her work explores themes of identity, language and relationships. You can find her on Instagram @sunflowers_adventure or Twitter @pauline_rogue.
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