Somehow, It Was

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
An abusive love that test the bonds of faithfulness

Submitted: September 26, 2014

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Submitted: September 26, 2014



You can find a crystalline puddle of red tears at the park, 
And what sprouts from it are vines, long and lanky, but coiling at 
Her feet so if she ever be tempted, she could not flee from
The red cheeks and black blue eyes, 
Hands so rough, slams through the core.

You can hear a silent whimpering in the dark at twilight,
But a smile graces the pale lips of the frightened child. She dreams,
Of nothing more than a blissful ending as it had begun
Where she stayed where she shouldn’t,
But laughed like it was nothing.

You can smell the burning flesh on the stake that had been darted,
And see the skin he tore from her cheek, but the dimple’s still there. 
Her feet are rough from what she can’t buy and dirty from what she,
Walks on all day, miles and miles and miles with a single smile she
Wishes the world well and prances in her ruby stained sundress.

And at night you can hear the bellows and shouts, glass scattered on
The gravel below the window, three stories high and breaking,
Millions of little mirror pieces falling like cold hail.
And then something happens if you’re quiet, the world stops on its
Crooked axis, and she, tear stained, goes to pick them up with bare
Hands, but her eyes never furrow and she’s estranged from the edges.

The next morning she’s carrying the crystalline vase with him,
As if it had never melted into a puddle at the park. 
As it was through her eyes or through violent touch, but was pieced back,
And his eyes were dark and hers was blue; together the colors of
Patches on their sides and arms, the color of their stitched up souls.
Her small hand still scarred from the broken glass on the black gravel
Holds tightly onto his hand, he was her gentle auspice and, 
His arms circled her waist in guarding of her unspoken fear.
And that night the crickets could be heard and the gravel clear of speck,
All heard were the gentle moans of two young desperate lovers
Conniving at something warm like the liquid pulsing, rushing,
Through their veins and they tear the flesh open to find its lone source.
But love was red for heart and not for blood,
And blunt trauma is not to be confused
With the heatedness of their caresses,
Nor are promises crumpled like paper,
And expected to be a clean white sheet.
But love was red for heart and not for blood.
But to those who saw them, it somehow was.

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