poem: 3/4 human and we don’t bruise easy

i don’t bruise

easy . you say this
with my bird-bone wrist
in your fingers
and i turn it
inside out
under the bathroom mirror lights. marks on my insides where the flesh is
white as snow ;

i saw it, once upon

a remembered sleepy

summertime / the dog

nipped at my fingers and

it’s lead
stripped my leg of its

( look – speckled red
the covers )

and the dog ate my brown
lapping at summer green grass

her owner, sunburn bright

watched in horror and i didn’t

cry but now i

i think about
snow white and dashing
on the front of cars / empty skulls, flowers in
my mouth / petals on the gum sockets. do you know that

we don’t turn
many colours on the outside / i have never

bruised, easy, you must

beat and beat

to turn my brown a little

black . you must whip

and strip me

down to

a blushing crimson-raw.

we don’t bruise

like you do all on the

outside / we are not

fruit in a child’s

palm we are hardy

like mother’s feet over the soils

and his bones

under the whip / child’s

belly swelling / cheeks

against officer boot / the sun-set

sinking light

in eyes unrisen.

¾ human, and we don’t bruise easy | talia b. ; @ragghearts


poem : a letter, from – your almost-victim

and i

took what was left

of us to the riverbank,

held it under by the neck

‘til it couldn’t cry “ no more ! ” /

‘til the sun sank from a bleached

sky and sucked each star

from the heavens  

and still, i kept it

under /

you started

the killing

(once you saw i could make

words out of letters and

got a taste of something




i made it

into a murder / didn’t

know there was a difference

but i felt it in the veins of this

body you chased

for the

thrill of ending up

waist deep inside something



girls and boys

and people

like me , prissy and pretty

noses in the air , skin

summer-dark, ever-brown

iron-eyes , watching

you watching for another


rose-mouth running under

the barricade, freckled hands

rubbing through every line . i

wear little and talk all loud out

of bounds, too much

for a church boy / lily-liver, white as

a false surrender

i spit back

and bite hard the hand

that would command

my body

and say it all, the way it is,


with my hands deep in the water

chanting my truth to what’s left of us,

in the only language you

ever knew /


black and blue,


red and pink,




and bruising.


– letter, from: your almost-victim| talia b. ; @raggedhearts



poem : people-pleaser / ghost breeder

woke up to your fingers
painted on my skin / luminescent
lurid ,
in the dark. you’d taken
and taken me with everything
you had left / i hope
in the middle, just
before the end
that it made you happy to

push a hand
inside – wrist
and muscle, too,
laying it all to rest.

you buried your
lovers in my graveyard
and now, i grow round
on ghosts.

people-pleaser / ghost-breeder | talia b. ; @raggedhearts

poem : night-hearts

i can feel
it all coming undone
to darkness
always, i’ve been – been afraid
of dying / loved the night & hated the way the light looked
as it was leaving

i lived for the stars, awhile
until the sun rose and claimed
what was hers
so i think

maybe death is like a
the night sky our
hearts i promise

( you won’t even know you’re gone )

– talia b. / @raggedhearts ×


poem : almost-free

i’m dreaming

of a world

i might die before

i see

but if even


of us gets to be

brown / black /


and free

you’ll hear me

from the stars,

strung up somewhere

a thousand miles between your hands

and mine,

a whisper, of –
“we stood

and broke and


so you could live

just a day

more / like this / like you’ve never known what

it means to hide

and the lights

are burning

and a heart beats hardest / before it beats

no more,

with an ages-old pride

and you

are all we fought for

and you , toppling walls,
( doing all we did

only in darkness, half-light,

shuttered up behind closet doors )
shining, loving, living

where it’s daytime bright,
you are  all i dreamed of

18, half-gone,  almost-there,

talia b. ig : @raggedhearts