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@teaintheweeds.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 2:40 AM

How much of what we suspect is the truth? And who is innocent?

#PoemsAbout #Bites #TakeRisks #EndOnAnImage #AvoidCliché #Poetry #DarkPoetry #NarrativePoetry #Amilie

Amilie

The reeds are nestling into the wind,
and the autumn season twitches.
The trout are whispering in my ear—
“I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.”

There's a line and bobber pulled from the water.
Hush. Hush—
the bass murmur to soothe.

The girls at school
candied their comments.
I choked on what their sweetness disguised.
Their amusements were carnival games.

Sinking beneath them—
an offering to savor.
They will find you.
They will find you.
They will find you.

My principal drew me into his lingering embrace.
His gaze summoning others.
Search closer—
You'll find me in the filth around you.

What has the muck preserved?
Clasped tight. Clasped tighter. Ensnared.

And the preacher held my hand.
His big fingers rested over mine.
He'll let go. He'll let go. He'll let go.
I counted the spaces between his private lectures.
Call my father. Call my father. Breathe on—

Please, God—oh Lord, save my soul.

My mother was impatient.
I wandered out of sight.
Come home. Come home. Come home.
She called me back—the night laughed.
Step by step. Stone by stone. All alone.
And in the dim light of the glade—
she begged, she moaned.

I took a path in a princess dress,
where the rushes ached for water.
The sedges tangled around my ankles,
and bubbles slipped between agonizing gasps.
No one there. No one there. No one there.
A tackle box sat beside the bank.
Please find me. Please find me. Please find me.
Not a sigh. Not a break. Not a howl.
Only the fish playing games in my mouth.

The reeds are nestling back into the ivy.
Spring—the season, now slowly vanishing.

And the tadpoles grow legs and turn into toads.
But here I am. Here I am. Here I am.
The trout—they whisper, “I'll see you next autumn.”
No one's coming. No one's coming. No one's coming.

The wake—it washes the tears from my hair.
Sparkling gown—torn to pieces beneath heaven.
Wait for me, pray for me, sunk somewhere along the bottom.
I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm still here.

—LaShelle—

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