Genevieve’s Cycle Two, Week Ten: Untitled

Little viper is wide awake,
cataracts dripping blue milk.
They say she must be blind,
that silk under a hot iron
protests more than she ever will.

But what they can’t believe,
they can’t see. She is stretching
past all the places she never thought
she’d have to resign. She whittles
away at her body with words,
with an alphabet scattered
like marbles across the kitchen tiles.

Don’t ask where she’s gone,
don’t knock on the door.
She is here, coiled in the blue darkness
behind your own eyes. She
is a bright shadow writhing,
whispering a dialect
only spoken in dreams.

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