If we plant things maybe I can atone for it

I change my hair with the wind.
And today it is blue because no other colour
will do, it is staining the wrinkles joins of my fingers
as though it refuses to let me go.
It is carved into my thighs in the shape of lies
once told, never forgotten.
Halves of my arms are brown
from pulling and lifting and climbing
for three days straight, the kind of work
I used to hate. Only now,
I bathe in the bruises and marks
left behind, these days are mine.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s