Literature
i am a magenta february.
Winter
is still clinging
to my skin,
with Autumn
sleeping within the tangles
of my night witch hair.
65 days to learn
how to
fall,
& Icarus, with his
sun kissed fingers
wrapped around
my throat, giggles
knowingly in my ear.
I have misplaced my
reckless disaster
of a heart
so many times,
I’m not even sure
it ever existed
at all.
But knuckles,
they never lie-
pressed flowers,
lipstick stained
against my
uprooted spine.
Covered in frost
& silence
I am a magenta
February-
the imprint of teeth
that bruised centuries
between me
& bed sheets.