november brings
it’s own kind of wrath
i hear thunderbolts outside
but they don’t compare
to the storm raging in my head
to the ghosts in the gutters
and the monsters mingling beneath my skin
and the noise in the walls of my heart
that do not want to be hushed
and there is only one way to quiet them
i fold my fingers into feet
and let them walk across the page
let them write stories
and countless lines of ugly poetry
that no one will read because
it’s far too long
and no one has patience
for soul spilling anymore
i will bleed only in ink
until every last vestige of sorrow
has seeped from my veins
and then i will turn them into origami
something fancy and beautiful
to decorate the shelves
where melancholy used to sit
and when it’s all over
the flickering shadows will fade
and the rain will stop
and the ghosts will leave
and the silence will rise with the sun
-ashley jane
