FLOATING

Tranquil bodies carried
songs throughout the night
that turned into days of forceful
hibernation amongst people.
Ones that sink with the stench
of reality around the corner.
Potent vines clamp to the ground,
taking with them the last ounce
of dignity in me. They welcome in stabs
of shame with the sun. Some bloom
with hope for a different destiny,
others wait to watch me fail.
But I float—
to the song of an ever-existing glass
loupe that waits for my crack.

THE MACHINE

An explosive machine near me, in comfort. I couldn't expect this
from a never-troubled, confident looking individual whose hands bloom
flowers all throughout the years. Avoidance
is what caused the deadly encounter I faced that day.
Teary eyed, with the presumed idea that bonds mended
can bend
and break
once more. I see her face behind the shadow yearn for aid that cuts deep
into the remains of my self respect. Something I have long before pushed off the list of items
that deserve to be treasured. Dying slowly
through the times I shouldn't have.
The almost invisible hand reaches towards my heart and pulls
on the strings of remaining hope. Her strings are untouched, as I, singularly, withdraw
all the pain.
The machine nears my existence.
She pulls the trigger as I wake up to notice the bullet
is one I already took.

Beatriz Batlle is a poet from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic who explores self identity and personal growth in her poems and utilizes poetry as a creative outlet. In her free time, she likes to free write and listen to music. She studies Leadership and Business Analytics at Babson College.