Issue 8 - February 2021
I trust myself with sharp objects and deep water By Bella McClendon
We’re lying on the concrete His eyes are next to mine I’m thinking I can forge it ‘Till he drops that fateful line “I love you,” leaves his lips No longer can I breath The tears are welling up I think I need to leave I sit up quite abruptly And soon he follows suit His eyes are apple green Oh no, here comes the truth I’m pulling back my heartstrings Prepared to strike a blow Fair cupid has deserted me I whisper the word “no” He doesn’t strike of scream Yet his faults I can’t ignore I wish that he would break Leave his sweetness on the floor Instead, he reaches out his hands I’m burning up with fever The lecherous tendril of a plant The flying shuttle of a weaver I don’t trust you well enough Please don’t pin me to this hill Now we have a history Your green eyes have caught a chill
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His kiss is icy cold, insistent His breath is crushing me Sweetness has frozen solid But his eyes are just as green Please don’t hold on so tightly I will not shift for you I love the lake and this fair place Will not be tainted by your truth You cannot defile this sacred space You will not have my blood and bone I will not accept your red embrace Or your minds deepest, greyest tome I can’t deny that I’ve been hurt My autonomy displaced A few of the things I thought I knew Have recently been re-explained The lake was blue when you kissed me coldly Now the lake is steely grey My eyes were blue when you kissed me coldly Unlike the lake, I am not changed I have returned to this concrete temple Returned to stake my claim anew To warm the stone with memories O happy things and not of you
