Poetry from Brianna Dawn.

the child

i drew blood and the bruises
muddied up my skin,
adding pressure only caused
me to flinch at the pain
within – i thought back to
when i was eleven and my bicycle’s
spinning wheels decided to jump
head over heels into the pebbles
and gravel and dirt – i stretched out
my shirt to wipe my knees
and every time i look at my right knee
i see the scar from when i
used to be so childlike and carefree
and now that i’m older i feel a
bit broken, overanalyzing my failures
maybe i’m too childish are behaving
too carelessly 
forgetting that knowing my soul,
is different from taking apart and
reassembling my heart to play
some sort of part in a life story
full of plot holes, both heart and
soul are vessels which must be filled
but neither of which must be
nourished from water that was
stolen from paths half walked
or from holes that aren’t whole
or from the clocks of others
i can’t tell or take their time
nor can i make their wishes
bring reality to mine

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