THE STOVE BELOW

I’ve been burnt here

and not for the last hour

the proportioned figure

ambles past my lust

Here it is happening

but no, she doesn’t heed

what hurts when the pride

does swallow the lower fire

and spits out the prickles

Brittle as her flaxen bones

too tiny for a whole soul

to cling to or to reject whole

No gods to protect

the healing process

of you belly-harm that

skin will compensate

Hoping he’ll never

ask or notice as

my concern must

rule singular

I ask for mollification

for my spleen that burnt bases

so I can repair the rotten riven

like so many never did before

Should’ve somehow known

to have commissioned the courts

but I was six-years old at the time

Burnt on your stove

thinly-veiled, below

beneath the comfort

and the warmth, home

My insularity vocalised

as my biceps sprung

and condensed my heart

to lax and unloaded air

But you’re so slow

to witness your

own moves and motives

it’s no longer repetition

for you or for your killers