#osayande

The soars of battered eagles

rests on my scalp for reasons

unknown to me. My clothes

are an unattainable reward on

-

the floor like dignity. I quiver,

arrowheads scrape the inside

of my sternum with each inhale.

I am choking on my own breaths.

-

When speaking, the bow is pulled

back. I try to talk, a turned back

unravels the package of my security.

I try to love in any way better than this.

-

We are archers, precise with the

measure of the wind in our words,

or lack thereof. Again all that was

wanted from my body is taken.

-

There are no utterances. A strong silence

underneath each snore and an ignoring

of whispers is all that lies there, these