I string the days together
Like black pearls on a cord
A necklace, a choker, for every week I think in poetry
For once I don’t need a mirror
I see myself in their faces
They try to hold what I hold
And it spills
I spill—And wait to see
Who wades through blood
Who sews the stitches
Who nips at their wounds
Which one is me?
She told me once
Nothing is too big for you
But Atlas is no mythical hero
The weight of the sky is a punishment
And every story we retell
Burns Icarus when he flies too high
My throat bruises in pearl-prints
If I could peel them off I would
But they’ll yellow and fade
Until only the phantom remains
He’ll be in good company
My ghosts are old friends to me
With Love,
Natalie