Strawberries
Sara Kay
The summer sun was high, nothing ripened except my new scars and pain.
Heartbreak thumped through my veins, and depression settled deep in my bones.
Waking up was the day’s most daunting task.
Chlorine pooled at my feet, slipping down the shower drains like the imagined future I once held,
washed away with my past life.
Crisp air arrived; sandals gave way to boots. Each knot untied reminded me how exhausting it
was to unravel my latest mistakes.
I couldn’t bear another summer without tasting the sweetness of ripe strawberries.
Under grey skies, warm air carried a fragile promise. Depression blurred into a manageable
mirage, and the steady work of pulling weeds whispered of an eventual harvest.
My summer’s strawberries will be perfectly ripe.
Sara Kay
Sara Kay, a poet rediscovering her voice after a decade of hibernation, writes with the resilience of survival and the spark of rebirth. At 28, she celebrates creativity alongside her love for pop culture, career in social media, and the perfect bitter coffee sweetened with a single sugar cube.