After Nikita Gill
It is more than they
but we settle on silence, and won’t
describe the power of fists. They tell
us to wedge our bodies into doll houses, but you
show me articles of missing girls and say these are modern fairytales.
I tell you that you are my best friend and you say I am a women of
lighthouse paths and cracked pencil tip sketches. How
do I create magic from used lipstick and wanted posters? These girls
were all walking home when they learned the art of invisibility and I can
only spell the word suspicious. Time will be
ticking out their names and I learn to light fingertips with flicker dangerous.
I understand I am the villain in the dollhouse and
I have a wardrobe of fists, but still
carry missing girl silence and laminate it over every school for a win.
Poetic Trials 