I'm being hunted. Shoot for the legs, thighs, knees. Bullets invisible and untraceable, no one believes me if I cry help to policies and people and parties and police (read: bureaucracies) that don't understand un-seeable evidence. My wounds are bloodless, they're under my heart, under my conscious, under my warmth. My wounds are those that'll break open fresh if you come too close. Hug me and the motion stabs me with pain.
Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic - it's not a big deal.
Yes it is, can't you see me dead on the edge of the well-worn sidewalk?
Re[a]d between the lines, between the legs. He fired the pistol straight dead center where every person born to be a criminal - perpetrator - knows it'll hurt most. Kill, destroy my unborn babies so that they can't be born, don't want to be born, couldn't be born even if they tried. Because their Mama doesn't want them. Babies can't be born if their Mama is dead anyways.
Don't touch my knees, don’t touch my chest, don’t touch me. You are poison - don't infect me. You're mentally unsound, you're sick - don’t make it contagious. My mind is drowning when I’m with you and I can’t breathe, please, let me go.
Come to church with me, you say. You mock, kick my body sideways, nurture steadily festering poison underneath my body's blood, into the cathedral where you'll bury me alive, and I'll never be found again.
I see red between the words that say:
“Girls deserve to be raped."
You mean me?
Blueprint Literary Magazine Issue 8, May 2019