Content warning: This story includes details of sexual assault that might be upsetting to some readers.
I crawl home to her,
snake skin over whispers
in the dark. Between folds of yellow, there’s a
long
smile, not quite a caress,
a sharp arrow defining the unnatural arches she made and all
tucked in beneath the moon — pellucid.
Too soon.
Too soon.
I have shed over his footprints, marked the earth in blood.
We hang on the edge,
her eyes clouded from the heat of a baited breath;
she strains
for ironic silence on the sheets,
still.
His humidity floats above. Listen.
I have come to tell you,
I have come to tell you,
from the gods,
from the dove,
from the lamb,
I have come in a dying whisper
to say, that the very rocks
cra
cked, in rage.
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