Bones

Updated: Nov 14













My bones are soft when I wake up.

Every morning I wish that my spine could be pulled from between my shoulder blades,

Threaded through a loom and woven into a tapestry.

I wish that my ribs could be turned to ribbons and threaded through my hair.

And that all the small, fragmented bones could be used to stitch my heartstrings back together.

My skin is delicate, just soft enough to slide the bones through.

But the bones are brittle and sore.

My soul is brittle, my soul is sore.

My lungs are tired.

How I wish I could lift them from inside my chest,

Set them in the sunshine and allow them to breathe in the fresh air.

Why is it that you can sew your heart to your sleeve but never lock it away?

I wait and I ache. I watch the sky.

Everything turns a pale shade of lavender; the sky and I are bruised.

The darkness creeps in without me realising.

Everything is beautiful now that the light is gone.

Why is it that blood moons are red?

And strawberry moons pink?

They are lovely, a speck of colour on the dark horizon.

Why are blue moons not navy, or cerulean, or cornflower?

They are full and plain and still lovely but not blue.

Everything is quiet.

I sob in silence; I do not want to disturb the cool night air.

Tears flow quietly down my parched face and catch the moonlight.

My shoulders shake but I am still.

A beam of light streaks across the horizon.

I wipe away the rivulets and open my arms to the sun.

Everything is shining.



About the author:

Humairaa Mayet is incredibly passionate about issues of social justice and strives to make a difference in the world through as many avenues as possible. She spends her days listening to music, cooking and baking, attending protests, and raising her plants.


Credits:




Instagram: @toki.suke

Website: tokisukeart.co




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