O Prophecy!

I waited for my prophecy

the day I skinned my knee,

tumbled from a rusting playground swing,

snickers creaking in the wind.

And blood gushed like secrets from an open mouth.

And I winced at the whine of the sting.

 

I waited for my prophecy 

the day I learned what “pretty” meant,

the grating arithmetic that screamed 

why my arms, my eyes,

my legs, my hair, my name

could not sing.

 

I waited for my prophecy

the day my pen stopped humming,

the way it screeched to a stop,

knee-deep in the snowy depths of my page.

And I waited there, shivering in the cold,

waiting for a story and its gold-spangled trail

to trudge back to me.

 

I wait for my prophecy,

to scoop me up with its divine hand,

to smooth my curls into braids

to whisper where I belong.

 

And while I wait,

I search. 

Scour shelves, sweep floors, rake yards,

search for the room, the green landscape

where I may finally stand.

 

I did not know what I was searching for.

And sometimes, left on the ground, I looked up,

searching the sky for my escape, my staircase to unknown.

Or a swirling crystal ball to crash against my palms.

But it was then that my gaze sliced the Earth.

Memories: ripples of gold, a rose in bloom, a pretty red stone

weep, protesting in the crumbling dirt.

And as I run a finger over my treasures,

I wonder why I wait(ed) for a prophecy.