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My house. A poppy.

I want to live in the petals of a poppy.

Peel them, bend them, to my will,

So that I will never fall out of it.

Embrace the red – the own colour of my blood,

The shades of orange and yellow, the shape of my flood.

Of tears

I would pop open the black core of the poppy,

Just like I popped my heart,

Slide through the green stem of a flower,

Bruises through my lungs till I’ll part.

Land on the hard ground, the noise encompasses my ears,

A small whisper of my confidence dying: ‘Lucille, where are the papers?’

My typewriter before me on the harsh desk,

Poking out my eyes with its words,

Tina on the side of me waiting for sounds to be heard.

But they don’t leave me.

On the contrary they drown in the sink of my head,

Clog my windpipes, and make me spit out red.

They stay in the there floating in the sea of blood,

Just like some poppy petals in the ground of mud.

A day later

Tina wore black to the death of a friend, whose brain took a dive into the deeper end.

Photo by photo graphic/Flickr. Written by Tímea Koppándi.


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