Maya Trest, “Vultures’ Feast”
there are nails stuck in my pharynx,
digging into the back of the muscle
where my vocal cords lie. my words choke
around her metal, steel dyed with scarlet
where freedom is meant to live–
i had not lived.
she forced apraxia on my body,
when she beat the heart out of my head,
and only left the instincts of a mouse
running in a maze, squealing
soundlessly.
i grab her by the arms, dry heaving
on her chest, the nails in my throat
falling gently to her body, the points
digging into her skin.
if she wanted to silence me,
she would have to feel how silence felt.
