A repressed screech
by Sarah Edwards
I was aware when I was 11, but no one else saw the heavy palm, tightening the noose around my aging shawl. It was a withered maroon in color & I lived in a room.
I was a girl then & I pretended to run outside my body in every dream, every night.
I only realized the blood in my reflection when the claws of some artificial blindness unhooked my training bra, digging & hissing with an easy slurp. The uneven dusk at the corner of my eyes would immerse in a losing battle with a mouthful of limbs, laid bare by unfriendly crows.
Cupping my unbloomed crescent, as if I couldn’t taste the salt of my own nostrils.
I drowned & I spit inside my mouth, stitched with cloned threads before the 12th year could sprout in agony.
I was the wrong carved in ice & my fingers still burned.
Before the night’s end, the slight crack in the floor that shadowed gentle footsteps, never dared to wrap my two hands in the flesh of silk worms.
I would fall asleep & the lines from your favorite TV show filled the attic with accepted memories.
Human angels are stupid, a figment of nicotine laden scabs, despite that, I take a willing breath & I am still a girl. Then & in torn skies.
Bio: Sarah Edwards is a writer and/or a poet. Her work is experimental and based on some truths and inner heart. Her tumblr: http://sarahscribbled.tumblr.com/