.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.*
My lips curved to the angle of my contrition; my bones
dry like sandpaper — I refrain from facing the sight
of my slow-breaking; I shade this night, and map it out
on my sea-green scars. Their wig-donned smiles abandon
me, to gawk at my graven loss, paying a hefty load for
the skein of my destiny.
I am somebody; I have something to do with shattering.
My ears bend to the tremor of voices that hearken to
the shell-shore of Calypso — ‘Shame,’ they call out in
my cerulean-blue sequined nerves. ‘Pity’, they resound it
through their cherry-twine jowls. They bury me in stones
and pull at the weight of my guilt, avowing their fealty for
the passing of my duality.
I am nobody || I am somebody
to evanesce — I only need be.
.
*From Sylvia Plath’s Tulips
For With Real Toads’ Wordy Thursday, where we are starting off with a borrowed line from another poet’s work and Wordle 363 at The Sunday Whirl — a very raw third draft (with the closing couplet added to create a semblance of completion).
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