Taint She returns to what has assumed the name of home. Stray light, the bedroom devoid of him. She undresses, de-leaves like an autumnal tree. All the layers and what they have to hide. The bare bones underneath, quivering. Longing for birds. She dreams the wood infested with bugs, their mandibles sawing up the sun-shy soft flesh beneath the bark. Maggots in her shoes. Worms in her hair. No space left unviolated. Irreverence and sacrilege. She did not choose that storm. All that has been touched has turned itself wrong and inside out, has filled itself with the immeasurable weight of disgust, dirt, and days piling up like stones. The body counted in stretch marks trying to cover all that ache. The bathroom. The sink. The holy water. Things can be so clean and white and yet so stained with empty. She scrubs her hands ‘til sunset sings because blood is the best disinfectant. The sterile speech of razor blades listing immutable facts. You are soiled. You are nothing. The limbs of a doll that go slack in an angry child’s grasp. Maybe under the raw red flesh, some splinter of you remains. Fingers draw lines in ink and shame on a girl that did not want them. The stains that are sins without a chance of repentance or redemption or grace. The smudges that never come off again, the things that rot underground. She had never known how the morning dew could become the sweat of fear or how all the stardust in the world could clot into dust and filth.
Late (again) but here is one for #PoemsAbout #Consent ✨
for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk
The things you did not consent to and the marks they’ve made. This is about a very dear friend.
Thank you to paulrapley.bsky.social for inspiring me to try writing in 3rd person 🫶🏻
