c l a u s t r o p h o b i a | a boiling poem

there was a little girl

you tried to see how long she could live

under your pressure

how hard you could push

despite the cracking sounds

the air bursting out of her body

you wanted to observe

her life force

whether she would fight

whether she deserved to live

the life you gave her

because it was yours

yours to give, yours to destroy

if you wanted to

what would it take

you cloaked her in the torn fabrics of your life

fighting your ghosts

ever-persistent

the horror leaking from your skin

how your mouth lost control

destruction is cradled by your bones

your bed is a trench

garland bodies

you grab her

put life in death’s place

she sits in it, lies in it

and you stew

she shivers in the accumulating aftermath

of your exit wounds, soaking her

and you never got over the premise

that a female body must absorb, must hold yours,

take yours back, take it back in,

take all of your wounds and heal you,

it never mattered that she was a child

she was a girl

that was the point

a girl carrying your war

a girl inheriting your war

a girl with a man’s body in hers

there was no more space for her

you pushed and pushed her against her own skin

smothering her

what was dead in life, alive in your head

you lay to rest in her

but it wreaked havoc

and you became a spectator, a visitor to your

externalised museum

look how courageous I am

and she turned into a war memorial in your honour

turned her into a mass grave

when she was so alive

your garbage in her body

and she’d grow

nothing ever disappeared

she forgot the sound of her own voice

what she had to say

the dead were too loud

Photo by Isabella Mariana on Pexels.com

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