Crushing a smooth, ripened peach,
bird song ripples like anger and delight in the early hours.
Sparks escaping a roaring fire,
vulnerability and power –
flowers left abandoned on a grave,
guilt lies unkempt, a nose bleeding into a sink.
Electricity, blue skies hazy with pain,
an empty barn, sweet, sharp straw,
chalk on your hands,
fear in your heart.
Travelling, the smell of new carpets
and soft ice cream, melted before it reached your lips.
for pink skies instead of grey.
A Different Home
Knocking on a door the colour of fresh cherries,
acidic paint fumes and falling leaves,
static in my hair from the trampoline.
Mournful bird song at sunrise,
a patio door left open, counting up the squares of my wallpaper.
A piñata, in bright, lime hues,
singing along to brightly coloured songs in the kitchen.
A still, unfinished house,
a street perpetually in Autumn.
Sixteen, she glitters like shattered champagne flutes,
rosy lips, stained sweet like fruits.
Sixteen, I wrote,
will taste like crushed violets and cream,
Merely a means to an end,
Blonde hair, cocktail glasses,
golden hoops and a chandelier smashes.
In my head she was sequinned and tasselled,
time stands still,
her stance embattled.
A head full of thoughts unclean,
a necklace blue, aquamarine,
oh, how I wanted to be
Millicent Stott is a fifteen year old writer living in the North East of England. She’s a lover of small animals, stars and feminism.
You can follow her blog at millismusingsblog.wordpress.com
and she Tweets at @millismusings