Prisoner

Because she leaned to watch her reflection

Move into the colors of ivory mud

Every time it rained.

And she has carved her name

On every wall of this place

It’s not hers, and it’s not his.

His traps were never for her paws

But she sickly tasted every bruise

And now she’s caught, and now she’s not

Singing lalala counting backwards

Bending several melodies

Into a tight knot.

She grows prettier in this dark room

Crying petal of rose blood

Everytime he steps in

To savor her small bits

And she tied with her age

Bound by his fear.

“I will claim your throat

By the sharpest of truths

The day I find my sanity”

And she is sick of carving her name backwards

Senses a pond conceived with her reflections

But this time, still and calm.