she grew a garden on her arms
full of pinpricks
and peonies
disappointment
and desperation
a cry for help in the middle of the night
covered with a smile by morning
you feel your heart rip
so you rip
into the soil
to grow something new
to feel the sunshine on your face
to feel anything at all
all the while wishing to wither away
to feel nothing
at all
you water your garden
& it grows
& grows
until it grows
so wild
it swallows you up
©copyright Allison Smidt 2022
the warmth of you
snaps
like a twig
on my snowy heart
you are near and I start to melt
when the cold seeps in
is the moment
I realize you’re not there
anymore
any more
of this and I will
snap
like the neck
of an animal in a trap
to be put out of your misery
to be put out of your memory
to be put out
in the cold
where my snowy heart and I
belong
©copyright Allison Smidt 2022
not a girl but a flower
with petals paper thin
sweet and fragile;
stem covered in razor-like thorns
not a girl but a ghost
a vapor
that cannot be seen,
perceived;
only felt
not a girl but a house
cracks in the foundation
crumbling walls—
the detritus of a former life
not a girl but a forest
with a canopy of leaves
set ablaze again and again
only for new life
to spring from the ash-darkened soil
©copyright Allison Smidt 2022
a lit candle
in a darkened room
a black book—
hands holding the cover shut
it cannot hurt.
you try
you pry
it won’t be read
you won’t forget
a bruise panging in the night
it cannot hurt.
it cannot hurt you anymore.
gnash your teeth
a toothache, a sore
a scab to pick
the skin breaks and
the bone shows through
it cannot hurt.
it cannot hurt you anymore.
it cannot hurt you any more than it did before.
©copyright Allison Smidt 2021
the windowsill
with rings of coffee
on white paint
a wide window
sealed tight
“When was it that we last saw the sky?”
the occasional soft tap
on the glass
a wasp trying
to get in—
trapped outside
of a different trap
another tap
no, a thud
louder than a wasp
“A bird.”
crushed and still
a hand that grips the windowsill
smoke
that fills our lungs
in an hour
we look again
“The bird is gone.”
©copyright Allison Smidt 2021
The hand that reaches over, even when there is no sound.
You squeeze until redness appears.
Words float through the air and grow stale.
The everyday, every day.
the bags; the piles; the forgotten interests.
A purple rock tells you it will bring you peace.
you form a fist. Its points dig into your palm.
You sit up. Dizzy. Head-spun.
The redness forms no bruise.
no one will know.
you breathe.
“Try to do better,” you say.
And try.
©copyright Allison Smidt 2021
The dust on the floor
settles
around us
Our footprints
stagnant
unmoved
The only clean spots on the floor
We trace our fingers through the dust
but we don’t clean it
It settles
growing mossy
and thick
We haven’t changed positions
We haven’t moved
We don’t reach out
We don’t embrace
The dust
settles
Swallowing us up
And we don’t notice the distance until we are drowning in it.
©copyright Allison Smidt 2021
