I am curled up in the storm shade of afternoon
about to clap its hands
My fingers run the cracks in the purple-grey,
not lilac, not lavender,
just some ghost of purple,
though I suppose these walls were lavender once.
I am a shadow
a printed copy of yesterday
carved out in hollow light
and freckled with empty sleep.
I feel like someone has taken a spoon to my insides
and scooped all the human bits out,
hollowed my abdomen,
sucking out my organs,
with a long paper straw,
my heart an uncorked bottle of pumping red
sitting on your shelf
next to my freshly plucked eyes
fogged up with stills from inside my head.
I am hyper aware of my mouth,
its bright red flare
shooting sparks across the space
between us and the heavens,
my rosebud lips in full bloom,
petals spilling from my mouth,
blowing in the wind
as I peel aphids from my skin.
I sing of sea and salt and air
flying feathers across champagne skies
into my hair,
catching leaves and branches
as I tumble through the thorny undergrowth
and out onto the sand.
My paper tongue flitters uncomfortably
as I scribble my name in the shoreline,
the thorny breath of sitting too long in silence
pricking my throat
as I sit alone and wait
for them to hear me.
I found a cavern
filled with fireflies,
their yellow-green light
Why are there fireflies
in my gut
when my eyes are carved in darkness?
I am filled with the break of white light,
dipped in the honey of early morning sun,
and sinking my pen into her velvet skin sky,
striping out my fading dreamy head
in inky echo of her tongue
across my sea-salt bones –
I am morning.
© Hayley New 2016