For the sweet cherry wine between our thighs.

If you don’t know yet babygirl, run. I know you’ve crushed your wings and your knees are broken from the trembling but please run. I know , marigold flowers are sighing in their last breath before they’re pressed in a heavy novel, there’s a firefly somewhere trapped in a glass jar and its light is fading out, and there’re spiders whose homes are destroyed in the name of wrong place to be. There’s no time to save them. No, there’s a war coming , do not go for the belongings, do not go for the souls who forgot to love you, do not go for the pictures of your childhood, do not go for the dolls they handed to you and said ‘here be like this , pretty, pliable, glass eyed, to be played with.’ And do not go for the razors they put in your tiny palms , the colours they dipped you in , pink yellow ‘softer colours please for my babygirl’, do not go for the guilt to want things bigger than what they’d planned, do not go for the apology poems you wrote for the world, do not, please do not go for the safety of a man. But take your voice, take your soft and gentle, take the tender of your freckled, scarred and bruised warm skin, take your stretched and worn out heart, take your spine, take the poetry of your angry and crazy, take the strong and steady of your spine, take the wild of your imagination, take your language and words, take the lover and the mother within you , take the goddamn razors if you wish but most of all, when you run take the “No”. There’s a war but there’s fear in the gut of the unfair world because they know. When you’re running, you will know. The moon is your ally. Beneath her you run, for no man can hold you down. you travel with the wind. you hold the fruits in your hands and no, nobody can touch. you pierce the wild beasts and tame with your innocence. The stars cram themselves in your eyes and the moon lends you her light. They can’t help but watch and you can’t help but run. The dust in the stars is the same as the one in your flesh. air of the butterflies, of the hummingbirds, of the soaring eagles and the bickering vultures is the same as the one hiding in your lungs. The water of the Pacific, of the Mediterranean, the water of the devil’s triangle all live inside you. The blood of the earth, the steady thumping underneath your feet, live inside of you. Stop, honey, turn around and look at the world you put on fire.


2 thoughts on “For the sweet cherry wine between our thighs.

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