you took my shame and sliced it
lengthwise and lethal
with a viscous crunch through
the sheltered skin of a hothouse tomato.
no hesitation marks here
you cleaved me not crosswise
in that superficial scarring that screams
here I am, a suffering seeded gash
staining citric your surround.
you slashed my history
left me gasping for a tourniquet
or oblivion’s sweet relief
while the blood of shame in my eyes
obscured my vision for an eternity.
you want it that way
as it keeps me neatly in my place
that place where I may not
disrupt ill-balanced status quo
or wreak maladroit mayhem
with the power in your head.
the dripping blood of an act engaged in
is pulsing exsanguination here
four score and gore on the floor
daring you to do better.
am I to be judged
by the stertorous impulse
of my worst nightmare
or the cucumber constancy
of my day to day?
I am relegated
a crumpled and ill-used relic
ne’er dusted in the cobwebbed corner
until I decide
that I AM human
and deserving of continued respect
Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”