In their lust blood, in yours
unmoved, lies my
genosilence                  accomplished.            
   Long learned in the steady of pain’s pulse
                                    I was

an age too                    tender
for lessons fire-forged;    
                                    branded in hate
blisters,                        memory
would scald my        blood
and sear my     heart
which r i p p l e s
does not beat  without        
skip, and                      hardly weak

my final breath
would scream
and your skies
would rain

powder                        bones
bits, the                       scent
of me that made thick
your                             breath
would choke your
contempt,                    name
your end
as mine.                       Worthy.

I am
dust of days’ past,      yet      
in my               forgiveness,
in yours, is                   seed,
our best                       hope
for a life                      deserving
of the               soul.

                        Joanna Beth Tweedy