And in our season of storms,
I lay myself bare
Before you.
Tell me it is beautiful —
Tell me it is real —
This blue vein river,
Like a tide of yearning,
A need,
And pain.

Don’t close the circuit
Or quiet the alarm,
Slacken your grip,
Ease yourself in,
And ride that current
To the bundle of nerves it feeds.

Sit with it.
Try to untangle
This web of tissue and blood.
Can you see them?
Who is here?
The silenced.
The abandoned.
The forgotten.
The denied.

If you would shackle them
And refuse them bread,
Just know this.
They will find the means
To nurture
What is hidden.

You can choose —
To be a witness,
To close your eyes.
To quench their thirst,
To leave them dry.
To love the flaw,
To deny them fire.
But they can choose, too —
To keen, pitiful, from the cell,
Or to devour their jailer instead.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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