| Filed under

Contributor: Wyn Sharp

- -
Blood runs cold from
jagged wine bottles
used to pierce my fragile skin.

Fists beat mercilessly
to semi-consciousness,
my dried blood beneath his nails.

He leaves with a shovel—
to prepare my grave in the peach orchard.

He said I’d make
fine fertilizer for his fruit trees.

The clock ticks;
There is little time.

A mirror reflects a new image
of cropped black hair
that matches my shadows and scars.

There is strength and courage in departure.

He will return and wonder
How I had the courage to flee.

Cracked wine bottles on the floor
will rip at the flesh of his feet.

I will wear flaming red lipstick.

- - -
Born in MS and raised in TN, Wyn graduated from UNCW in Wilmington, NC in the fall of 2013. She's written poetry and fiction from a early age and can be found on Word Press, Twitter, and other media sites.


Powered by Blogger.