Hung like bunting

Today she was reminded

of all her faults;

the ones she keeps in boxes,

rather than the false ones

she champions, for social acceptance.

Most days, only she knows

where they are kept

but she forgets

she did not walk from her mother’s womb

into adulthood.

She stumbled and crawled

with a bloody nose,

and through a broken jaw

she learned how to pronounce

‘imperfect’ and name every fault.

She breathed life into them

before she filled each box

and pressed down the lid.

She acknowledged them

and the way they hurt

others; beating hearts

black and blue,

a third eye so swollen it will not open.

They reminded her today

the boxes are not hidden;

instead some days,

they are hung like bunting.

Facets strewn like silly string,

kaleidoscopic streamers, and shrapnel.

An explosion of her colours;

ashamed and nervous

because she’s convinced herself

she’s worthless;

she’s selfish, childish,

nostalgic and a kind

of heartbroken she’s named

‘Nameless’; because that’s how she feels

when people talk about her boxes

instead of the roses

blooming in her cheeks.

© Kristiana Reed 2019

4 thoughts on “Hung like bunting

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