How many times do we sleep in our dreams
never quite shaking that feeling of déjà vu
spilling our insides into a messy pool
trailing through our waking days -
And if I cannot forget, I will pretend to
until eaten like so much rampant cancer
under my skin that I resemble
not me but somebody else.
How else was it written when you spoke
to the spirits and spat in their faces
that you will not be and will not do
what was scripted for your role
as victim, whore, wife, baby machine.
No. There can be no mincing of words.
Our letters fall upon the floor
in pretty little ribbons uncontested
or the bow in the little girl’s hair.