How Your Hands Open

You can’t cut blood

yet it splits itself

out of a wound—

dangles raw


like dew on a petal.


You can’t cradle tears

but you can lick wet cheeks

and think,

saltwater never tasted so warm.


She likes your broken hands—

the chopped zig-zags she would spit on,

and then  say,

“I see a mansion with an olympic-sized pool in your future.”


You can’t mistake her red lipstick

for blood,

but when she kisses your naked wound


it stings


stains you.


She picks up the damp flower

tucks crinkled orange limbs behind her ear—

and spins away like she has new life.


You shake your hand,

trying to make more blood run—


She smiles down at your vulnerable bones…

tosses her hair like a dying fire.




Author: Stacey L Herrle
Email: staceyherrle1@gmail.com
Author Bio: My name is Stacey Herrle. I am a driven writer and a full-fledged dreamer. To me, my writing and dreams go hand-in-hand. I derive my inspiration for writing from personal experience, my heart and adventure. I want to be a writer who leaves a mark, who makes noise. I want to write artistically. To write fire. Electric. Raw. What is scary to write. Shake it up. Tell my truth. One day, I want to be a powerful voice for individuals who have trouble living what’s in their hearts– the feelings, the truths, the wants, the vulnerable windows and doors that want to open and share. To me, through writing, we have the opportunity to be our strongest selves– to be true to ourselves.
Link to social media or website: Instagram @posted_duck





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