by Sophia V., 18
String six feet long.
Just enough slack
for you to bury me
with the caskets
and still have one hand
grasping the leash.
The other, conveniently privy
to the shadows of these nights.
But on those brilliant, cloudless days,
you erect me in the sky
at the mercy of a dance
I so fiercely despise.
My customary cloth
ripples and undulates
by the command
of your wily fingers.
The sun casts light
and illuminates the red coloring
of my fresh rage.
But I’ve been watching the ocean swell,
and I can smell the impending rain.
I promise you …
when this hurricane comes,
I will billow and surge
with brazen force.
And your fingers will have nothing left
but a shredded tether.
St. Petersburg, Florida
Bridge Ink 