I carried a shovel like a secret,
its blade dull with the weight of silence,
while the ribbon I tied around my wrist
frayed and snapped with every step farther from the fire.
The teapot sang songs I couldn’t understand,
a maraca shook in my hands; unsteady,
like my breath, like the sky falling in slow motion,
from quiet anxiety to sheer terror,
from whispered fears to the scream that doesn’t break the air.
I dug holes for what I hoped to bury,
the mistakes I carried like stones,
the sharp edges of a moment
where the world slipped and I forgot how to catch myself.
The ribbon twisted around my fingers
until it bled stories I couldn’t tell,
and the maraca’s rhythm was just the sound
of a heart pounding in a dark room
that knows someone else is watching.
I poured tea from the teapot,
the steam rose like smoke signals,
but no one came to answer,
only the echo of my own footsteps
swallowed in the dirt.
About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
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By Maia Gadwall the metAlchemist6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
The pain of holding on is so sharp in the poem, like if you step in the wrong place your foot will bleed because your hand couldn't carry anymore. It feels lonely, and eerily not alone at the same time. I had a vision of just sitting down and falling onto my back as fragments slowly fly into the sky. Haunting, but beautiful
In the dirt, no one hears you step. In the darkness of the room, no one watches.