She is a kingdom
contained within herself,
A menagerie of half-formed beasts
human-faced,
stampeding against her ribcage,
Oceans flowing
Around cartilage-capped bone,
Seagulls’ cries escaping
salt brine lips.
She is a universe,
A supernova caged
In the cavity of her chest,
Galaxies pulsing
Between her fingertips,
She, skies infinite
She is cut apart,
Halved at the waist,
Her torso becomes flat skies.
Her face, petrified,
a pale moon hovering,
phantom, overhead.
Her thighs become earth, dark soil
Breasts fall into mountains,
Tears fill rivers,
And her breath hovers, fog
in winter air.
She is a planet,
Pieces of herself scattered
Over a world created
In her wake,
A crime scene
She, the evidence.
He buries the bloody sword
That cut her to pieces,
Buries and forgets,
Blood seeping beneath
Walked-on ground.
He treads heavily
On her spine,
Bruises blossoming green on her flesh.
He washes his hands clean
And forgets her face.
He calls her vessel,
Calls her sacrificial offering
Calls her anything but her name,
Anything but kingdom, universe.
Why is it always she who must bleed,
Who must render herself offering,
Conduit of creation?
Why is it always she who ends up in pieces?
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