When I grew up. I thought that to be respected, I needed to be strong. As hard as nails.

I believed that aggression was my friend, a friend that protected me from men.

Aggression was never a friend, just a women desperate for control. Over time she became a cancer, eating away at my sanity.

She brought chaos and raged storms when she was unsure of what to do.

When she is calm, she draws me detailed pictures of suicide and sings me sweet songs of deceit.

If only setting her free was something I was strong enough to do.

Right hand, labours on. Burdened
by the clay of her body  
A stubborn limb.  
In tempered skin.

Still, her left
Passed in Spring.

It's gentle palm
Curls open.
Leaning into the
surly revolt of her body.

Summer swirled.
A haze of sun.
And delicate
forget-me-nots

Autumn threatens floods.
Swollen clouds loom overhead.
We brace for bitter winds
In the Winter of her life.

And the rain pours.
And the rivers carve a map.

And the days pass.
Searching the blur of her body.
A ****** wristwatch throbs
Pulsing past a beating heart
Mocking mottled skin.

And the rain pours.
And strength settles into the seat.

A soft creak of leather
Warms the room.
whispers of my presence
Saturate the cell walls
of her coma.

And the rain pours.
And unearths an infinite truth

A graceful dance. She flees
The wreckage of her broken body,
Expired lungs exhale all suffering.
A parting gift.

And the light guides.
And she sets sail.
And the light guides.

A compass tears through swollen skies.

And the rain pours.
And the floods rise.

And the banks burst.
And the rain pours.

And the rapids
Drag me into the gutter.


By Anna Grace Du Noyer