“I”
A rose will bloom,
A child is born,
While they leave their mother’s womb.
The summer warmth of the sun kissing my gentle face—
I feel ticklish as a greenfly crawls my leg.
I wonder whether,
at this very second,
there’s a fearful bride running from being wed.
Shushing down my fear,
since it seems of the dramatics.
I pray for folks in poverty,
Folks who, unlike me,
have never re-read a beloved classic novelty.
My mind stitched for thought or action,
Questions minor incidents,
or interactions—
Still can’t grasp mathematical fractions.
My red nails now radiate brighter than my grey eyes gleam.
I feel the OCD,
Whispering: “That’s not clean.”
I lay, always observing,
But no longer feel right serving what doesn’t serve
—
Because it causes me so much unwanted nerve.
Occasionally, I think I lie to myself,
So I stay the same,
a comfortable doll on the shelf,
Afraid I wouldn’t recognise myself—
Might even call I “herself.”
I have routine—
Like in bright mournings,
I sip my lavender tea,
Pretending the scent can quiet
what’s left of me.
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Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to Anne on Pixabay
