By Marion Hawthorne
if my fingers crack and fall glittering to the ground, are they dry earth or broken glass? there
isn’t much difference, both only flame-kissed dust
if water is the only thing that separates us, would you press a teacup into my brittle hands so
that moss might grow over my moon-bright bones and soften them?
if earth is the only thing that separates us, pray, let us hold the soil in our joined palms and let
beautiful things creep through our fingers
if lichen and vines could wind around my ribcage, if fungus could dim the glow of your
fingerprints on my lips
if i shattered, would i break into diamonds and slip through your fingers?
if i shattered, would i be nothing but broken glass…?
if life is the only thing that separates us, would you take your mouth from mine? would you
take the gears from my skull, the glass from my eyes, the hydraulics from my heart?
if you knew who i was would you un kiss me? would you unspill the silver from my skin, the
molten lead from my throat?
if these words were whispered in your ear would you let the rotting iron drip from my veins
and let my weary bones sink into the dirt?
would you let me die if the sea froze to ice and the sand melted to glass? there would really be
no distance between our two hearts
Marion Hawthorne (any pronouns) enjoys whispering the stars’ secrets to pebbles (so they can grow up to shine just as bright). He’s a 14-year-old poet who lives in the United States. They’re an appreciator of purple, a circle enthusiast, and a collector of shiny things. Marion likes reading, music, and creating art.You can find her at @marionknot on twitter.
Hot Pot Magazine 