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.
