forest women

Syntax & Skin — my poetry series where language becomes a vessel for exploring the lived human experience

Forest woman has no face,

and still, she weeps with shame.

-

I can see her wandering the treeline,

hair slicked with earth and rain–

thin, intertwining wooded fingers

weaving strands to a single braid.

-

Forest woman has no name,

and still, I call hers in my sleep.

-

Sometimes, I think she’s part of me,

one who never learned mercy in release.

-

I dream of her loathing the birds

until she folds herself–

unseen,

into the hollow cave

of the aching tree.

-

Last night, I woke again–

wooden nails tap-tap-tapping

the pain, and still–

it was only her shadow

left to remain.

-

And still, I know I’d seen

more than just her

silhouette in the glass,

floating like memories–

slow,

deliberate,

unwilling to be left,

still yearning to last.

-

A forest woman is nothing at all,

but still, you’ll find her in everything.

-

Forest women echo footsteps that fall–

roaming with their lingering sighs,

they are nothing

but a haunting

living in corners

of your mind and eyes.

-

–To my forest women,

who still whisper when I turn the other away

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If you’ve come across this, you’ve just read the fourth poem of my “Syntax & Skin” series! Thank you so much for reading, as I hope that my work can touch the hearts and souls of many. Keep a look-out for more short stories, poetry, film/literature analysis, and op-eds!