yank off mother's pearl necklace, and watch with tired eyes as ivory beads scatter on hardwood floors. metal clasp falls, leaving marks on your heart you feel can never be washed away. parchment skin peels away at the fingertips, cuticles fray at the seams. you're burning. paper swallowed into oblivion by a carbon-ash tongue. it feels as if every cell in your body is being roasted on a spit; red-hot pigment searing to a crisp. grab the garden shears and cut the lace, watch it fall away from your hollow form. the little white flowers, just like the ones mother threaded in your hair. of course, you thought they looked better on the plants. honeyed whispers swirl through your ears, and the venom drips medicine down the back of your throat. you will never escape. head spins a figure-eight, and you land onto the ice. you fall asleep smothered by tradition. isn't that how it always ends?
All families follow some kind of tradition - whether it's for holidays, anniversaries, or celebrations. But sometimes, traditions can feel smothering. I really wanted to capture how traditions can be restricting and limiting. Lace and pearls are supposed to symbolize femininity. The person I'm referring to in this poem wants to break free from the customs passed down from her grandmother to her mother to her.