If I stand still enough, I start to hope
I’ll make myself an empty space—once girl,
now gone. I’ll be no threat, no haunting rope
or loaded gun. I want to live unfurled
and light, a soft and hurtless thing, no sledge
to wield against the world. I paint myself
in plumes—but even feathers have their edges.
The blades are always pointing out. I shelve
these weapons, do my best to hold them safe—
along the handle, blades away from me,
to face the floor and no one else. I wish
myself away. I chafe, I swarm like bees.
I’d rather turn to rust—disintegrate
and fall to earth. If I am small enough,
I will be soft.
