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Brides

Updated: 2 days ago

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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