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Clare Martin Clare Martin
Recommendations: 12

Saturday Mornings

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My house was my prison and my father was my prison guard, if it doesn't make any sense. I would've written this before I escaped, only I never had the chance. Thanks for reading.

I woke up at dawn every morning when I was younger,
Savouring the beauty of the sun as it slipped upwards,
Higher and higher into the sky with a smile on its face.
The colours were amazing, orange, red, immortal fire,
Changing the sky from black to blue and purple.
All my favourite colours I saw in the sunrise.

The cold air ignited my breath, visible in the light of the sun
And when a gust of wind hit me, my breath was momentarily taken.
I ran, sprinted to warm myself up, yet my sweat evaporated,
Steaming off my skin, spittle running down my lips and onto my chin.
Instead, I just smiled at the colours and tried to ignore the chill of dawn
When I knew that it had much more beautiful things to offer.

I didn't stay in my prison cell, but ran to a large, out-of-the-way field,
Slipping out of the fence that imprisoned me, escaping the electricity.
It was a place cars didn't drive, humans didn't visit, a place I cared for,
Unlike the majority of places in the world which are scarred by pollution.
The frost crunched under my footsteps, melting under the fire’s heat,
And I knew my time was limited; the guards would notice I was free. 1 comment

But dawn began to change, like the rest of my life.
I was still a prisoner, but moved to a different cell.
Dawn shined through the window, but instead of igniting beauty,
Ignited the stains of my blood on the wall, the bandages on the floor,
Highlighted the risen lumps on my arms, the dark circles under my eyes.
My eyes! The only thing that I love about myself, dead, glazed and lifeless.

Now, on Saturdays, I sleep and dream about what dawn used to be
And the joy it used to give me when it was as bright as it was.
I dream about when it lit up the beautiful things about me,
Like the sheen in my black hair, the forest in my eyes,
The smooth, light skin that wasn't scarred with eczema,
The skin that wasn't scarred with blades, and of my own accord.

Now, I miss dawn nearly every morning.
Either the sun fails to show itself or it doesn't rise at all,
And I have better things to do during those hours,
Like catch up on the dreams that make my life worth living.
When I awake, I savour what little dawn has left to offer,
What little it has to make me see that my next breath is worth taking.

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