light unfolding

By Elizabeth Adan

haunt me

there’s something in me and it’s dusty

I’m wearing navy blue

and I’m spilling songs and feelings

from the edges of my hands

and out my bending fingernails

another love sprouting flower bulbs from the garden of dead love

haunted blossoms

bachelors at the carnival

crying out for spilled sour milk old lovers

folded down corners of pages and lines raw

from the unfolding and reading by firelight

the future tastes like tainted moonshine

the bubbling of beer froth foaming from the corners of your lips

a song blooms in my soil

when we were the rawest

when we were all human

now you’re just some sort of monster that lives in my chest and nowhere else

you’re only cracking somewhere inside under a waterfall of cascading electricity

the eyes glint red at night reflecting the light of fire

the snake can get in any dark corner of honeycomb hearts

I’m ready to put out poison

we both may not make it out

it’s just between us two

and the light that makes its way to the basement of our souls

Elizabeth Adan is probably weaving words together right now. A lifelong writer and artist who enjoys deconstructing the smallest moments and largest emotions, often at the same time, her alliterative, lyrical writing takes on topics ranging from sustainability, nature, love lost/found, and community responsibility. A Pacific Northwest native, her true passion is the great outdoors, soaking up as much inspiration and natural color as possible. Find Elizabeth on Instagram and Twitter @edgeofelizabeth or at www.ElizabethAdanArt.squarespace.com.