Thin
I have paid my way through
the looseness of my clothes, the soldered
line of my jaw, the victim quiet
puckered lips of pale milk blood
knowing only the night to lift
those lilac folds of eyelid thin dreams
to the surface of my sleep;
happy pillowed mounds for my body
to exist without bold dark definitions.
I have a cave for the listing ways
of my day; the restless count
of knuckle grey grips –
silver perfect, ungreased tips
crossed over the white knowing
eyes of my dinner table.
I have lasted beyond the wincing
hour, faced the witch that sinks
her stone into the rippling mirror
and bit my lip and bit my lip
that cursed the gnawing stretch
of a wit which lead me to this
suspended place.
There is no line which can be crossed,
no scale of things blessed
or corset river bed dressed
enough for a happiness
that leaves you without space
to know your summer ripe self -
laughing, swinging
on the tree’s branch -
no, there is no such thing;
no thing worth this.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Thu 28th Feb 2013 14:17
Thank you for reading, I am very close to this subject so appreciate your positive thoughts x