We bury things
because they are dead, or because they are alive and must die. He buried himself in my soul when he plunged his fleshy finger into a tiny, untouched vessel. He said it was a game; he said the present was coming up; he unbuttoned his jeans; he tried to keep her from running. Running, running, crying She buried her head in her skinned knees, pulling the blood-spotted panties from her ankles, and hid until she withered, crumbled, flaked away. Each time he touched her. she numbed her confusion, waiting for a hand that would not crush or squeeze. She is ash; she has scattered. He has left a forbidden inscription on the tomb of her heart. He has buried his curse in her remains, but I remain and I reemerge. I avenge the dead. I will cut his roots. |
Shelby Bevins-SullivanShelby Bevins-Sullivan is an English Major at The University of Kentucky. |