Harboured Hearts Jas Saunders i hate that i pray,
every time we go into town, that my eyes do not see
and his eyes do not find
the rarity of people in this world, that tell me i am not alone, so i don’t hear the words
he selects to use for slandering
me and the people i love, in the back, like a sword in the stories
and tales i decorate my spine with, and that is a shame to me. i hate that when i speak,
my mouth opens to an encore of lies, taught to be spat out for my safety
whilst the truth does not get to hatch, and spread its sweet songs across my bedsheets,
scrawled on shutters,
twirled around a lock of hair, or resting upon a finger.
the truth does not get to grow
into the butterflies i spent a childhood composing chasing
catching.
