Graphite 

She was graphite, rough and raw.
She’d erase rough lines of guidance,
use the indents as a reminder of where not to walk,
how not to cry,
when not to break.
She’ll sit up into the wee twilight
Hours curving letters across
nipples pert bud,
gently caressing sensuality,
as the sharpened pencil defines
contours of need,
black lines of repression smeared by charcoal nips and probing tips.
Blurred definitions
tainted revelations
deceitful realisations
Graphite creations… how she pondered
now the way we draw our lines
in pencil, temporary markings
leaving a gentle trail
of destruction across
naked bodies beneath Lunar glows
Wild oats, taken, made and sown
Pick ups and throws…
The allure of graphite, need
erased, redrawn… Redrawn.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

Butterfly wings.

Run your brush across my skin,
leave behind butterfly wings. Paint me Red so I can be the evening wish and morning storm.
Leave one wing whole and one wing torn.
Use the darkest red you can find to paint my heart,
the lightest for my spirit, to set them apart.
Let the flames of my hair fall across my eyes,
paint them just so, to reflect that I am shy.
Draw flames vining across my toes,
In crimson red so I’ll always know
the devil once held me against the flow.
Admire now your creation
the art of life creates elation.
The finishing touches a sparkle of glitter across my skin,
and crystals formed of butterfly wings.

Karen Hayward 2016.