If all of my wars were seen,
I would have earned many badges.
Or maybe they’re pinned
to my skin
in the form of
bruises
and scratches.
Forest
preserves
prescribed
with
matches.
The wound is sour,
the awakening bulges,
like fallen fruit
the earth’s mouth
indulges.
Was only
smitten
by the forbidden.
Bit the bloody
pomegranate
until I was
guilt-ridden.
How could you call me a sinner
when my very nature
was
written?
Accountability is dead.
Rolling me like dough,
you kneaded me
until I spread.
Blaming me for my knots with,
let the dead bury the dead.
I don’t get your riddles.
I’m arguing with a wall
but it’s
my own voice
that
echoes.
© Stephanie Khio 2024