Hours and hours and hours
of knitting went into this fabric
around my body. It's prickling
yarn against my bare skin. I tell
myself that it is okay. That they won't
react the same way. That this piece
of clothing won't be judged as I have.
It will be complimented. Someone will
appreciate the labor attached to my chest
But instead, the neckline rubs my collar bone
The noose is attached—the stage set.
I will be hung for their enjoyment.
YOU ARE READING
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...
