It is dark and my back is pressed
against knotty pine boards.
I can't sit up. I am forced to lie
down and remember.
I feel with only my hands.
My fingers bleed as I dig
at the lid—the wood splintering
into my hands as I try
to break the boards above.
Moist soil rains down,
threatening to bury me
and I stop fighting.
Instead, I feel and my finger
brushes a string, thin and innocent
and I pull it taunt. Pull it tightly.
20 feet above, a bell rings
but no one answers.
I try once more.
The bell rings
And rings
And rings
Note: This piece was first published in I Become The Beast Spring Issue 2022
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Faces of Autonomy: A Poetry Collection
Poetry"The bones break, building upon one another-each vertebrae snapping, stacking, until my limbs reach the highest shelves." -From Chameleon. TW: Abuse, Grief, Loss, Violence. Poetry was never a genre I thought I would get into. I read very little po...
