Words have littered a woman's flesh, unspoken.
Memories that she has not made, places
she has not seen.
They tell her that those are the days
she'll remember,
a way of living that takes and takes
and leaves you raw and brittle.
She hates those days, keeps them in a photograph, hidden on display.
Words bring her here, to the belly of the beast which is never full.
They bring her to a cavern, hollow save for an echo of what used to be.
She wears her best skin and ignores the
hushed conversation, the whip
of a careless tongue over an open wound. You are not all you could be.
Have you seen the fine china, they ask.
Have you seen the cracks
in the walls and the dark shadows that
follow us to the graves we dig.
There's earth on her tongue and weeds
growing in her throat, and can
you keep it down, please, nobody wants
to hear your politics.
Polite conversation. Lovely weather
we're having, they say, but
she's drowning under the growing
rapids, struggling to stay afloat.
Cut into the steak, it's better when it
bleeds. The walls tell the story
of a boy who kissed the barrel of a
gun, but we don't talk about that.
We don't talk about the collective; we
don't talk about being stripped
to bones and a heartbeat, having given
so much there's nothing left
to take. Smile, extend a hand, return
gesture to sender.
She's quite the artist, they boast,
saying they knew her when.
Saying she'll make it if she's meant to, fire at their fingertips
with the door closed behind her. She's
rasping in the cold,
lungs weak from fighting the ice they
all take in so naturally,
and she's far from home with no place
to get warm.
They don't remember the script they
wrote, back when they were she.
They don't remember the labour sold for
more than hers is worth now,
but they'll close their eyes when it's
not their place and trust in a system
which was never meant to last.
