Youth
The waves beneath the cliff collide like blue hues of fine silk being tangled together ; a beautiful kaleidoscope of destruction and defeat. My legs hang off the edge of the cliff, pale against the maroons and crimson of rock. I open up the little book where I write the things my tears have seen; the things my eyes didn't want the horror of seeing so they were sent away in the only water translucent enough to hide it.
The wind grows and grows in anger and aggravation. It starts to fight me for the book, pulling the pages apart one by one before finally winning and throwing it into the ocean. My horrors hidden in the fine silk, a pretty cover to hide the trauma.
My fingers grace along my face gently. I trace along my jaw, shaped sharply but made soft by my skin. Then I move to my lips, full, delicate and pink like a rose in the spring - nothing that would grow in a place like this. On the way to the eyes, i feel the spotless skin of my cheeks. I move a tear from tear duct. I know my jaded green eyes outshine all the things around me and I know my youth causes jealously for all the things around me. My body is clear and not weighed down by the gravity of aging. My hair blows in all directions like fine silk being tangled together. I look at the tear lingering on my finger.
Horrors hidden in fine silk and a pretty cover to hide the trauma.
