I Am

I am
all that I speak of.

A mango not ripened and
a black orchid kissed
with the scent of
tragedy.

Rust-bitten bracelets
entwined with grass,
beads worn and
emeralds chipped.

Elbows painted with
acrylic, oil,
watercolour.

My masterpiece -
your mess.


I spent months wandering,
seeking violet webs
that strung me together,

with a butterfly net
who caught February,
once, twice,
three times?

I am the ones who speak of
your presence nibbling
at their heels
and the loose piece of
hair that escapes
my braid.

The comedy mask,
splattered with mud.

A Pollock creation,
Confused - abrupt.

I am.