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

good)

 

but

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

almost-untouchable

 

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

Stepford-lover

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,

 

blood,

  blood

and bruising.

 

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

 

 

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