Jasmine

Photo by Bibi Pace on Unsplash

I want to dress the words with gardenias; jasmine florals to beautify tears.

Without the summer fragrance, there lies bloody cracks in angled words that pierce. Left in their raw state is fear that dresses as competence. Don’t be fooled by the one who has it together. The brokenness is just under the crisp collar shirt. Beating, intense, fragile, injured soul that bleeds. But the pleats in the pants are perfectly pressed. Tailored dresses cover icy chills.

Once shed, the wrinkled skin holds historical clouds. Open doors to the portal lead to undifferentiated time travel. Memories seep into the mind as if it is now.

There is no scope, in the midst of hope. Cyclical movements today, to undo the sentences from yesterday.

As if…we can move through the tunnel to fix, to reclaim, to change. But what remains stays the same. The bruised furniture, shredded curtains, clocks that ticked but held still.

Time moves even when we are not having fun. The weight weighs tons. I just want to run. Maybe the dry-cleaned blazer will cover my arms that shudder.

Lipstick will disguise the child left a long time ago.