lavender

i’m walking on daggers

split into two and

quarters and i’m not

scared of my bare feet

but the blood that

will stain the

stainless steel.

i’m rushing over cloths,

wet to the right degree?

of the right texture, softness?

satin or silk or simple cloth?

guessing game of their needs

until i’m sitting on the floor

and the door is closed

and i’ve realised the clock

has made two rounds:

I still haven’t decided

and the wet cloth is dry

and the blood is dry.

 

Stained blades on my floor,

stained blades are my floor.

Mother and Father

water them everyday,

preciously and forgetfully

but on their way they forget

the lavender blood

marks

and do they ever

ask that question?

Where does it come from?

 

They walk over to me,

“please make things cleaner,”

but I can’t hear, for salt water

clogs my ears and maybe

it was too bad to expect

bandaids, so now I look down

and they look down

they say

it will heal on its own:

“you want to help us?”

yes, i whisper.

“Don’t show us this bleeding,

clotting, broken blood”

and I slap my hands

over my feet, they stick

to blood-skin like

clams.

 

Only soft, lavender

baby skin for you,

Mother, Father.

Only sweet perfection,

and uncontaminated writing,

mouths that

never choke and

lips that stay firm

and noses that know

when and how to

breath,

at a constant rate,

and platinum feet

that don’t mind your daggers,

(so I don’t stain your

blades with my

lavender blood.)

(I know it’s a collection

you hold very dear

to you)

 

Don’t bleed at the wrong

time, don’t let lavender fill

you up first fulfil them

or flip inside-out.

But,

 

lavender blood

leaks anyway

through crevices

and bubbles in

my mouth,

they see

it now and finally

they give me plasters.

Plasters to seal these

talking holes,

don’t let any of it escape

I don’t want to see it”

close the holes and close

the bedroom door

and close the corridor

door

and stop bending over,

you can’t cover the

holes like that.

 

Two rounds of a clock.

 

Relief now stretches

over their faces until,

I choke

on some

lavender in

my mouth, again

reflex and

unwanted,

and they sigh.

 

Shut your eyes, baby,

and it won’t be there.

And just play some songs

for me,

but now I have to go baby,

I have to go clean the mess

on our blades

and I just…

have to go..

 

I’ll get back to you

the next day.

You know, when

this whole lavender

idea is out of your head

and we can go

indulge in some food

like we do,

we promise we’ll forget

the stains, okay?

 

Pick anyplace you want,

okay?

As long as it’s not

purple or

lavander, okay?

okay?

 

And I realise the clock has

made more than

two rounds.

 

I still walk on my hands,

hands jammed like clams

on cut feet.

 

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