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Stained Fingertips

Poetry By: Undeniably Angelic
Non-fiction



A short poem dedicated to Summer afternoons picking juicy blackberries. (:


Submitted:Jun 4, 2011    Reads: 23    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


Grass tickles my legs,
rocks taunt my bare feet.
I reach down and pluck a juicy blackberry from its nestled bed.
Thorns sting.
*
I bite into the berry, savoring the taste.
The tart sweetness dances
across my tastebuds
like a graceful balerina.
*
The grass beckons me to lay down.
I accept.
My plush pillow is green and leafy.
I pick another berry.
*
It's bleeding from a thorn it got snagged on.
The dark liquid drips down my wrist,
my arm.
It looks like I cut myself.
*
I don't bother to wipe it away.
I like the look...
Maybe a little too much.
I smother the thought.
*
I eat the bloody fruit with a satisfactory smile.
My fingers are stained,
My lips are stained.
I must look a sight... Oh well.

<3




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