Poetry on The Feminista
Glass Flowers
Memoir in Ruins
I.
In the marrow of dawn, a slick
bone chill crawls. I stand — pale,
blued from last night’s remorse,
watch the fog peel back like gauze,
this brittle morning a shard of truth.
Outside, a cracked sun rises,
blunt as a fist against a wall,
and I wait for it to open — warm,
familiar as an old scar beneath my ribs.
I swallow it down: the red, the rust,
the scraped iron filings of survival.
II.
Each breath here tastes of tarnish,
the air, dust from an ancient clock
raining against the back of my throat.
I am its pendulum, swinging —
heavy, stubborn in the silence,
the echo of each tick
the only witness to my movement.
These hands of mine, fragile
as glass flowers. Last night,
they shattered against their reflection,
spilled splinters sharp as memory,
each shard a remnant of things I’ve lost,
each piece a jagged truth I buried.
III.
Today, I wear my mistakes
like a second skin, raw,
and drag their weight across the kitchen,
spatulas, pots clanging a rusted song —
the music of mundane penitence.
Through the cracked window,
light bleeds, thin as spider silk,
frail in its attempt at mercy,
and I envy its effortlessness,
how it slips so cleanly over scars,
spreads a balm across this cracked tile floor.
IV.
Once, I wanted to grow wings,
to uncoil, float free of my skin —
instead, I sank deeper,
dug my bones into the earth,
struck root where I stood.
There’s a symmetry to suffering,
a rhythm to every relapse,
and I sway with it, hold its pulse,
count each beat as penance,
each silent confession
a hymn only I can hear.
V.
Sometimes, in the dark, I catch
my reflection slantwise,
a face bent and bruised,
eyes wide with too much knowing,
too much wanting.
But here in daylight, it thins,
fades like a half-baked shadow,
and I learn to leave it alone —
this ghost, this stranger
housed within my skin.
VI.
The walls close in,
tight with their old,
peeling wallpaper —
roses blooming gray in the dim,
pale petals curling,
like a memory forgotten.
And I wonder if I, too, am peeling,
if my edges are curling
at the margins,
fragile and prone
to crumble under the weight of it all.
VII.
I walk out, touch the earth,
feel its cold truth rise up,
numb fingers pressing into damp soil.
This body, so close to surrender,
wavers, shifts in the soft, black earth.
I dig — handfuls of dirt, clay,
fingers raw in their searching,
finding nothing but root and rock,
the dull bones of the world,
bitter and silent, sleeping.
VIII.
Under the surface, the roots grow,
strangling in their own dark,
each twist a denial, a forgetting—
a hiding of things too hard to bear.
And I think, perhaps, they hold me here,
bind me to this ground,
keep me from vanishing.
IX.
When night comes, it comes gently,
folds its heavy cloak over my shoulders,
presses its cool breath
against my cheek.
And I let it, let its darkness fill me,
let it settle like dust
on an untouched shelf,
undisturbed and quiet,
its silence the only truth left.
X.
In the end, I will walk alone—
through this, through all of it.
A shadow, a seam split open,
a whisper of something undone,
and as dawn breaks again,
I’ll stand there, cold, waiting—
another day to swallow, to fill
my hollowed-out hands
with whatever light I can hold.
I’m Ani Eldritch, Senior Editor of The Feminista. If you identify as a woman, come, write for us! If you’re interested, here are the submission guidelines. And, of course, thank you for reading.
