2015-2016, Poem


Featured in the 2016 Spring Issue of Rambunctious

Cayla Dedrick, '16

The fabric beneath my fingers grows sticky and moist,
as blood seeps through the wounds cut by your broadsword;
The lacerations left behind reach deep to my bones through tissue
that is lightened by the silvery moonshine
turning the colored word to grayscale as my heart is avian-
all wings a-flutter- and the blackness behind my eyelids is slipping

And with it I am slipping,
Losing the feeling of the ground's moist
chill - I wake again to the rousing rustle of an avian
disturbance of leaves in the trees, leaving branches waving like broadswords.
The soft warm of the sun replaced the cool wash of moonshine
familiar at my bedside is the clock and a box of tissues

Deep blue carpets strewn with tissues
I have not moved for otherwise I would be slipping,
and sliding into a stupor of loss and loathing, and of moonshine
Hours pass, darkness falls, and with tears, my cheeks are moist
I haven't the energy to fight back the demons, they come with broadswords
Daring to cut me open again and expose my avian

bones, fragile and hollow to support my avian
Heart, and let me take flight. If only I hadn't broken down the tissues
that held together my wings that once cut the air like broadswords
before I found that from the sky I was slipping
And now those wings hang limp, moist
with the dewdrops that once sparkled in the moonshine

There is only the dulling buzz of the moonshine
To give me the illusion that I could be once again avian
But it's my own rainclouds have left me moist
with dejection and despondence, and I have long run out of tissues.
Into the darkness within myself I am forever slipping
And perhaps this time I have fallen on my own broadsword

Even if I could lift the weight of this broadsword
I know that now I'm too soaked in the moonshine
I cannot see the rocks beneath my feet and I'm slipping,
on the feathers littered at my feet, no longer bright and avian
I cling to my existence as it shreds as easily as tissues
And the blackness that engulfs me yet again feels strangely moist

Can I fashion wings once more from the broadswords left my skin moistened
With blood, sweat and tears glistening in the moonshine, tissues
unable to clean the puddles that had me slipping. Shattered are my bones and dead is my avian-