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
combusted
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
