This is sort of a poem for Tara but it is actually about one of my dead

VIVIENNE

A broken dancer mane of wine red hair
cell pacing pale.From time to time she’d start
to step a form from bed to wall. Her heart
brother had torn from. Should not have been there.

Did nothing. As it happens. If she had
should not. Her flutter wounded pride; her face
lost his. His blue friends threw her to this place.
Wanted to smash her. In the end they had.

Six months alone no hope. Shattered once free
white Dresden fragile. Never could quite mend
Stiff as the damaged arm she could not bend
loose in her art. And it could have been me.

Talked us free once then left. Accept the blame
that burned my cheek. Guilt sorrow naked flame.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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