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.
