lovelyvictoriangirl

I held a body in my arms, fragile, fractured, fleeting. It was devoid of terror because it already knew what it felt like to die. I held the body for a few hours, then a few days. I walked her to the kitchen and her glazed over eyes stared at the fruit, ripe, ready to picked. She was just like them once, but after she was torn and bruised, men still wanted to consume her again and again. I wrestled with a corpse held her by the wrists and begged to go back inside, but she is so tired of letting people in, that she even shut herself out. She fought me not with fists but with confessions, that she has been too weak, too soft, too u n s t a b l e, every time that word is spoken or that song is played, or even just the way someone makes us feel, we return to this state of pushing and pulling, of absence and staying behind.