Cult.
The word bruises the skin,
A bitter cut under the flesh
That presses in around my neck
In a ring. A promise that
I made once.
I didn't know it back then,
But the single syllable, so silken,
Was smoothed out and sewn into
A choker, but I didn't know
The word for it (they didn't teach me),
So I called it a collar.
They called me faithful
Like a dog - a precious pup,
Braindead as they trained me.
Only if my bells on a collar -
Silver church chimes - rang a bit
Too far from home did they call,
Beckoning me back
To warm arms that promised life.
It was only once I cut it off -
And with it, them - did I realize
That only now, I can breathe air,
The "collar" choking me out
So that not a word of protest
Would be uttered.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoetryExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
