PORCELAIN.

The battles I face—

The demons I chase—

Find home within the hollowness of my vessel made of skin.

Where I bleed gold throughout my veins.

My hope is fragile, weightless like paper planes.

All that matters is that I find a way to escape the flames.

My head buried deep into my palms.

 Yet even in the  silence.

My heart dares to proclaim.

Tortured thoughts absorbed by shame.

I dare not let anyone see the cracks in my porcelain.

 I’ve always been shattered, glued together by things foreign.

However, I’ve made room for the flowers in my vase.

In hopes, I’d notice the world in a better place.

-Katy Dutil