the morning after

her cheeks were stained pink,
a blooming bruising blush left over
after turning sickly sweet sixteen,
with laughter.

today she is embarrassed of that gaudy glittering girl
who would whisper words wistfully
to the wind:
“eat your heart out”

the westerly winds that used to
caress her skin
like a lover’s lingering touch,
lift the weight of long locks off
her back.

at twilight
when the room is left in shadow,
she remembers the painful pleas he made
disguised as promises and
the bright blue flame that used to blaze
in the pit of her belly.

during winter
she can hardly see the stars,
the wind burns and brings heat to her cheeks
as snow falls silently:
a story left untold.

---

a/n: I feel a little different these days, and I've forgotten how to write.