J A C Q U E R I E

I am an unwilling surrogate, who carried to term the anxieties implanted by those I first loved and trusted. I’m not sure what they expected when asking me to kill what is now part of my blood. Probably not abortion by tea and crumpets, which is why the invitations have been sent.


High Tea By The Old Oak Tree


Their wings minuscule
They are dancing
Bees

Her hands deformed
She is shaking
Me

Their podiums rise
They are watching
Preachers

Her hand’s twist
She is paying
Teachers

Now a less in my anxiety
Is an intro version’d faith

An erase thought tax

Shining blades sharpen
The night as I crumble
Near the window pain

The suit didn’t kill
The bees
Mama

Neither did you
Falling on your
Knees

Your weak hands
A ropes injustice
Knot

Begging for the
Blood
To stop

The knife didn’t kill
The bees
Mama

Killing my flowers
You tied me
Ran

Another side reflects
Wild bleeding
Rage

Your secrets fed
My freedom fire
Seed

The noose didn’t kill
The battle
Mama

Betraying your knees
I will crawl to
Victory


Sometimes, we must forcibly cut off our own life supply with the opponent’s weapon of choice, to stage a coup and demonstrate that triumph is not a contingency plan but rather an unmistakable promise.