I’ve felt four years, six years, nine years old most days…
I’ve rarely felt this body age,
I’ve taken all the blather,
and thwarted it to fit
the dialogue
that best suits this suffering.
There are no truth in ghosts,
there are no truth in echoes.
These voices belong to someone
other than me.
How long have I listened?
How long ago this blood pact?
How long have wounds felt like petals on soft skin?
How dedicated to my suffering,
how beautifully explicit I was.
Stay still,
hear her whimper,
hear her shatter,
hear the salt of her laughter,
taste her sugar.
Hold her,
tell her it’s ok to kiss thorns,
to swallow blood.
Tell her to weep, to run, to forget, to love, to fly.
Tell her.
Tell her.
Tell her.
