Thistles snare my legs as I fast forward
to the forest behind your eyes
where I am zip tied to a birch tree
gagged but no longer screaming,
curls camouflaging themselves to bark
skin dented with your teeth
spilling out of your mouth
as you speak to me. My throat is
the Atacama as I attempt to breathe
in through my nose, out through my mouth
one, two, three, four seconds
exhaling
I search for water
in between your sentences
because I see I am not enough
to quench the thirsts
of my fullest roots.
Please stop screaming.
How often does it rain
in your ribcage?
YOU ARE READING
an ode to the moon and her galaxies - a poetry collection
Poetrypoetry anthology in which a girl reaches to retrieve her relationship with her father, pass over a family member's suicide, and loves a boy.
