The burden of a confession
Bound to her flesh
In moments,
Disordered images,
In a story she wills untold:
Blood roses.
The turn of a key in the lock.
The smell of terror.
A lamp,
Just out of reach.
Words clench. Bowels flinch. Raw.
Recounted matter-of-factly
Like a trip to the grocery store –
Loss of innocence.
*
vic briggs 