In some other world
I am not wrapped in happy gold swirls,
no silver-dust showers, medallion flowers,
I am no whisper in a picture of some magic land.
In some other world
I am no shadow only glimpsed in a passing glance
instead I slip from your ravenous hands,
I am no whisper in a picture of some magic land.
See the way
I hold your hand down
so I can own who I am- how
well I command your strength with my grace.
How they may mistake my touch for my gain.
And the way I turn my face, away from your own
my mouth closed like the stone they rolled over the grave
you remain unable to contain your twisted pain
so you face the other way
to obscure the gold flaked yearning in your face.
Once I stood different. Looked
innocent. My hands swinging free,
eyes and mouth open and dreaming
but what you said and did in this meadow
got to my head
and now I’m led to the edge of a cliff
and here,
every thread of a vein
and every cell I contain
starts to move a different way.
Who is this skit for?
The painter?
The people in the frame?
I’m steady, though I’m left at the world’s end.
My feet are flexed.
Ready.
In some other world
they’ll paint me with obsidian glass from volcanic ash
the madness in the aftermath
of an explosion.
Madeline Yang is a 16 year old writer from California. She has been previously published in Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine. When she has free time, she loves making music and taking naps.
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