Aubade For a Wound

Tell me it wasn’t red, that when we bled it was only cobwebs in the shape of a broken womb, that the stitches were eyelashes twitching open, the shadow of a girl at night and a flickering lamp in a verde room filled with someone else’s dead, ghosts lining the insides of my mouth like fillings, gold flashing out through my insides, rubbing stones until they wore to dust and praying to something larger than ourselves, watching the bones shift until I was no longer safe, until I was something to be hunted, scarred myself so no one else could do it for me, a girl isn’t a woman until she’s been broken so I broke myself until my body was only dust and someone else’s hands, until my veins turned so barren they couldn’t get needles in, something more refuse than girl.