Heaven’s breezes pulled me in,
under the deep swank of your charm.
There was a feeling of familiar
safeness nestled in your shadow.
I was content to swallow it down.
I was content to ingest the razors
disguised as love’s sweet toxins.
They tasted of passion fruit
on my soul’s forked tongue.
Ah, but I was young,
I fell asleep at the helm.
Thrashing waves awoke my metamorphosis,
and the scratchy silk of my cocoon
threatened to asphyxiate me.
The deep swank of your charm
now clutched my silken strings.
With your knee in the center of my spine,
you tried to strangle the breezes from my wings.
Ah, but my wings were strong.
My mature, beautiful wings
were stronger than you were wrong.
Love’s sweet razors I once ingested,
regurgitated and bladed to
slice my silken strings from your
possessed and vested finger hold.
Now my own breezes,
my own sharp, autonomous breezes
nurture me in the depths of my own shadow.
My soul’s forked tongue will never
utter another forbidden morsel of you.
I am thankful to have grown.
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Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.