i ache to create but my hinges are glued in place, my mind on a memory that blurs into mist

a maple leaf the size of my palm i paint black, a gentle sweep of the hand to not crack its quiet

its edges point upward, defiantly sharp, warding off danger like i do in dreams but without holding its breath

a sliver of silver I touch to its center to remind it of the slits of ice that tore it from a limb, how it died an unholy death

i whisper my secret to it in a way i couldn’t my mother, but fearful it won’t be kept safe on brittle ridges, i light it on fire

it curls in on itself like regrets held too long at the roof of my mouth and is as all the times i have expired, an altering mirage, but different: 

a thing of ash is easy to free