by Carson Wolfe
A young woman found dead in her home
leaves a note to her pathologist.
The amethyst egg tucked inside my pussy
is essential for strengthening
boundaries.
You are probably thinking, this dead girl
needed a restraining order,
not boundaries.
Fold open my eyelids, stained
with a white shield of energy
I imagined could protect me.
My heart on your metal slab,
a geode, pickaxed open.
Isn’t it pretty?
How I crystalised his fists on my bolted door.
It is said babies only see
in black and white.
Mine nursed from a prism,
her cheeks a kaleidoscope,
she saw me in colour,
bending light,
an illusion,
there, in the hallway.
My scream a muffled tone
like my phone locked in a draw.
Now I’m here, on your table.
A dull lullaby.
You think I saw this coming
but I did try to leave, once,
wrestled from his restraint
on my seatbelt, I stepped out
onto the M60, ran and hid
in a parking garage for hours.
From then on, I had to sit in the back
with the child lock on.
I hope you don’t have children.
If you do, you may suffer
at the thought of my daughter
asking why
I can’t pour milk on her cereal.
If you do,
you may want to resurrect me
with glue.
If you do,
I might go back.