literature

Reaching hands

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Published: Mar 10, 2014

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Literature Text

You were made in June
but born in the heart of winter,
bright green eyes,
reaching hands,
you wanted to be loved;
but they took one look
and shook their heads.

That was your first experience of rejection.

You started school in August
but only tried to make friends in January,
lying in the snow,
you lived in a permanent winter;
wet trails down your back,
scarves in summer,
you wanted to be loved;
but no one saw the potential to bloom,
they only focused on your withered irises and
frostbitten fingers
and saw a dying rose.

That was your first experience of loneliness.

Summer holidays began in July
but you only felt free in December,
the neighbourhood spilled outwards,
planes soaring above carried your troubles away,
and you were truly alone;
hours spent catching snowflakes on your tongue,
sitting in the flurries of snow that embraced you
a blanket over your pale form;
bruises blooming like crocuses
and your green eyes dimmed under the frost
constantly surrounding you.
You wanted to be embraced by something warm;
but they couldn’t bear to touch you

That was your first experience of isolation.

Secondary school opened its imposing gates in September
but you didn’t know anyone’s name until November,
it was a bitter winter that year
and you were sick of the cold,
of the apathy;
and the rage fuelled a fire inside,
you kept yourself warm;
stopped relying on others
because they had never had reaching hands
and dead green eyes.

That was your first experience of anger.

He waltzed into your life in October
but you didn’t notice until February,
he was a stalwart presence,
red and blazing and combustible;
you watched him rage,
flames spewing from his pores
while you shivered in your icy corpse,
the fuel in your stomach had run out long ago
and the cold was seeping into your bloodstream
but when he looked at you
your eyes thawed
and a hint of green glared back at him.

That was your first experience of friendship.

He defended you from them from November
but you didn’t thank him until March,
as spring sprung around you,
the sunlight began to reach through
and snow melted off of your shoulders
dripped down your cheeks
as you cried silently behind him;
reaching hands
met warm summer skin
and your eyes began to open
bright green.

That was your first experience of acceptance.

He embraced you in April
and you returned it straight away,
the last stubborn patch of ice
that had sunk right into your heart
thawed and warmth steamed through your pores,
something bloomed inside
and your green eyes were shimmering in the sun,
carnations blossoming across your cheeks.
You wanted to be loved;
and finally your reaching hands
found another pair outstretched towards them.

That was your last experience of winter.