Feel your grief, baby girl, wrap yourself up in it. You didn’t so much overplay your hand as set all your cards out on the table, as a child, trusting, has yet to learn the rules, and the bitter sting of the guile of others. Observe the tall column of his back as he turns away from you. Observe the three words of his name that he has set just out of your reach. Observe how he does not flinch, not even for all your screaming. Embrace the arid cold of his indifference. Lean in, lean so far into the void he has left, trampling every good, growing thing in his wake, that you have no choice but to topple over into it. And there, at the bottom, between rock and shadow, mop up the blood spilling from this great injury, and weave the colours of this injustice in your hair. Paint your face with it, attach its slender length to your ankles. Come, no more crying now. Set what’s left of him beneath your feet- set it on fire. And now, just like those rocket ships that launch themselves from their frail, trellised scaffolding, you know deep inside you the only way is up. The dust and rubble will be far too late to say goodbye.
Commentary: I'm still not 100% clear on the difference between flash/micro fiction and prose poetry, but I think this piece sits somewhere in between. I think the difference probably hinges on whether or not there is a storyline. This short piece surprised me as when I first started writing it, it felt like a lament, and although I have written some very miserable pieces they usually get renegated to a folder in my google drive, doomed to never see the light of day. But this piece surprised me as it soon turned into something more empowering. About taking insult and injustice and turning it into fuel for wherever it is you're going, whether that's a creative endeavour, a reinvention of a part of who you are, or literally turning into a rocket ship and blasting off into the night sky.
