Untitled // by Gray Ophelia B. (January 2018)

I have spent my life
Running from a reflection
I don’t know how to
Outrun.

Wishing that I could
Redact the marks of
My flesh
And erase these imperfections
That run along my limbs
And twine between ribs.

They twine until I
Tremor and my
Frame cannot stand
To support its aching hollows.

My skin cannot seem
To seek salvation
Where salvation sulks
Among the crevices of my skull.

My cries go unheard
Inaudible to ignorant
To blind
To them all.

My lips do not seek
To forsake trembling hands
And trembling hands
Wish for idle playthings
Persuaded by perverse ways
That leave traces upon souls.

What must light be like?
To draw them all like moths
And unhinge vile
And dirty hearts;
They’re wicked, unfruitful beings,
They are.