By Skyla Allen
When I am old with violet veins
Like the purple petals in the garden
My skin akin to a butterfly’s wing
Crinkling, clinging, and laid
Over my soft breakable bones
As a blanket of snow
Covers a sleeping town
That’s when I know my voice
Will quaver with all the years of use.
My hair once amber, now turned ash
As my freckles fall into etched lines
Carved in deeply—it’s not lost on me
It actually seems, I’ve absently drawn
A map of all the things
I’ve ever felt.
Skyla Allen (they/she) is an artist and writer based in southern Indiana. Their passions lie in the in-between spaces of genres and are often explored in her writing. They have recently graduated with their M.A. in creative writing and have had their work published in Allusions magazine.