Code Blue: Identity

“If you have been brutally broken, but still have the courage to be gentle to others, then you deserve a love deeper than the ocean itself.”              
— Nikita Gill
the consistency of friday thirteenth            
-her life's continuous repeat              
rang chimes of church bells      
celebrating celestial sabotage        
in continually      
circulating circumstances        
drenched in wine, of fine vintage            
throwing fifteen year old corks              
in the air      
singing praises            
to her words      
while they cut his heart            
into wedges like a        
birthday cake covered            
in flowing colorful wax              
when no one blew the candles out            
he stares at the ceiling           
each cork, falling to            
open palms            
feet resting              
on desk top            
hair unbrushed            
face unshaved            
old clothes            
a fountain pen            
behind his ear            
he tried studying              
gave it up              
in his choice              
to speak phonetics            
and crosswords            
she, still hanging her head low            
staring at her feet in search            
of a silver lining around              
black waves in storm clouds;            
unsure as to where the dagger            
that stabbed the essence  
of her femininity            
came from, or why it            
lodged it's target's            
so deeply, penetrating            
every part of her humanity            
and young life            
-making for a crisis              
no man            
would understand            
well, except for            
the historic, blood on her hands            
(which wouldn't            
feature in the back page of a              
sunday newspaper           
in a one horse town)            
he untied the leather straps            
binding the hardcover journal              
reciting the calligraphy            
of his own hand            
out loud, for the world to hear            
"Whilst up in the top floor            
of that castle            
don't eat of an apple            
don't make yarn, on the spinning wheel            
keep yourself safe            
grow your hair            
when it's let down            
you can look up            
-the silver lining you search for            
is up in the sky            
this is as truthful            
as the inscription in the front cover            
of this book"            
gently lifting the book, she            
sucked smoke from her hookah          
while looking at the floor            
blowing hazy clouds            
exploring fingers            
opening the cover            
to the forward...            
"you are The Mother Of Pearl            
your blues are            
a palette of wonders            
to explore      
with open palms            
- arms reaching              
to your constellations and            
star-soaked heavens."            
occasionally you get syrup            
when you think you bought            
other times it's an Asprin            
hearts know what they need            
Written by RevolutionAL (Alistair Plint)
Published | Edited 19th Aug 2018
Author's Note
A Response, In All Things That Matter And a Spirit That would Never Leave Us.
Letters To Layla
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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