You’ll Bleed Like Me
Edmonton, Canada
2020, Junior, Poetry & Spoken Word
The waves and sand hide in my closet.
I used to wear them like my second skin, but now
they stay put, abandoned on a mannequin. But you
remind me of
old grayish-pink Crocs,
and knives made of glass.
It isn’t pretty.
The blood, glass and tears.
The sand is stubborn
and dives deep, petty.
I smear
crimson on grainy butter,
but I have pity.
The ocean shares
my feel of suffer.
Unlike me, you dress the sand
and the ocean wonderland
like a personal mannequin.
The sparkles turning bland
her purity you can’t stand
to you that perfect face maddening.
and so you demand
the sea and land
thrown in death row for her beauty.
Reflection
Reflection
I was 9 when I got 5 stitches on the arch of my foot and put under to remove several pieces of glass. It was the most horrifying experience for a 9-year-old kid who had never experienced so much pain. After, I learned that there were beaches out there that wouldn't just scar me, but completely tear me apart. I wanted to take from my experience and show the reader that you'll bleed red like me when your carelessness draws it. We can't stand the temptation when beauty and grace dangle in our faces, and it's always an "if I can't have it, then no one can" mindset or something startling similar to the psychology of a serial killer. I understand how it's satisfying to see something so pure instantly be painted black. I'm human, after all. It was exciting to manipulate my poem's structure because I wanted to show the contrast between free and formal, beautiful and wild and inconsistent and restricting and heavy and something that utterly shatters the illusion of the original. Not that I have anything against formal verse. Every now and then, my family and I work on a plan to minimize our water waste and decrease our carbon footprint. I'm miles away from the nearest beach, and I'm not planning on returning anytime soon, but someday, I hope to be able to go to the sea and shore and run and fly without staining the sand red.