Where All Flowers Begin to Grow

Pencil stains the palm

of her hands as the

journal begins to pulse

and grow.

Hidden flower petals

tucked comfortably in between the pages,

a humble reminder

of the simple things

that still surround her.

Yellow paint stains decorate her denim jean pockets,

a bit of August sun

attached to her

as she whistles

on the path she continues to pave.

The apparitions of what was

linger at a close distance behind her,

dancing in mockery as

her back faces them.

The ghost of him in chains

just behind her,

like a serpent hissing,

he whispers for her

to forgive once more.

His spirit choked

in her throat

and settled in her lungs,

but growth taught her how to finally

exhale.

Dandelions kiss her feet as she walks

to somewhere better,

humid air embracing her tightly

as she begins to finally

move.

Wrists sore from his shackles.

Knuckles white from holding on

for too long.

But now she’s wrapped in her cocoon,

morphing.

His brutal marks fading,

her forgiving nature diminishing.


The golden atmosphere

coils around her frame

and reveals an illuminating sky,

void from his dense clouds that casted over

her and kept hid the warming rays

of the late summer sun.

The empty canvas

and unwritten pages

allow her to filter out

the last bit of poison that remains

of him.

Her electric yellow

masking over

his royal blue.

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