we lived alone in
an old Victorian house
with old Victorian things that
made us feel more mature
than we were.
we were too young in
our minds
to live alone and yet we
made it work somehow.
white washed halls and
hospital bathrooms and
the permanent smell of white paint
and loneliness.
always loneliness.
the only voices I heard before noon and after
nine were the old screaming kettle and the
whispers of old, musty boards
dry with age.
the house had eyes within its walls
and ears along the banisters
as it watched us dry like roses
and violets pressed under a
summer sun
taped tightly,
no air,
a beautiful show,
but forever two-dimensional.
--
thanks for reading my first poem of pressed flowers! this poem was inspired by a sudden plan for my two friends and i to buy a victorian house in los angeles after it was photographed. there's a whole lot of different interpretations of this poem, so i'll just leave it up to that! xx kat
YOU ARE READING
pressed flowers
Poetryshe had heard too many stories of people being broken and bent like wire, so she became a violet pressed between yellow pages of a well-worn book.
