Posted in Poetry

Arms

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.

I think not there yet,

I think this weakness is wrong.

 

I’m a loose thread that has been pulled apart for too long,

I thought maybe if I kept pulling, I would someday manage to forget.

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.

 

My arms are an open canvas, a bleeding song

And I can’t wait for them to get soaked in red, and yet

I think this weakness is wrong.

 

My fingers tremble, ache, long

For a single blade of color to wash away the regret.

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.

 

When I close my eyes I see flowers blooming like a dying song,

I see carefully written words and a withering silhouette,

I think this weakness is wrong.

 

When I think strong, I think of shaking hands when I was 16 years old,

Petals cascading from my lashes and the taste of blood, lips wet.

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.

I think this weakness is wrong.

L.

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Author:

23-year-old writer from Chile. Currently reading, writing, and trying not to lose my mind.

2 thoughts on “Arms

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