The hand that forms me
The hand that holds my neck
The hand that devours me with its nails
The hand that moulds me to the core.
The eyes without shame
The eyes that make me feel less than whole
The eyes who see me as I am not
The eyes who force me into action.
The nose that seeks me out
The nose that ignores my childhood
The nose that determines where I go
The nose that digs into my skin and particles of flesh.
The arms that betrayed me deeply
The arms, those of a mythical snake,
Revolving, slithering, tightening, gallivanting,
The arms that spoke of protection.
It’s the voice, the unholy one,
The darkest of terrors, the one that is regurgitated,
Its lies and promises, inconsistencies, the visceral intent,
The voice that condemned me with its thousand knives,
And as it shoved them down my throat,
I evoked images of fire, and of spitting it, bursting into a million flames,
My mouth’s golden potency, against yours, and exorcise my devils
That you housed in my body.
“Alice” by Henry Tanworth Wells (1828-1903)
