Distorted, Disfigured.

He asked her what was wrong.

And she said she didn’t know. She didn’t
understand the way
her body was clenched even when relaxing,
and she thought that other people are too
oblivious, and male privilege lines the walls
and weaves through conversation she was
silent of, and her throat felt dry and her
thoughts often raced and she wasn’t
sure why this animosity licked at her
with a split tongue, sending her down lower,
where she’s already perceived and once
again she’s the bitch, the bad one,
the bitter,
and now it’s her tongue that hisses, and
poisons, and it’s her body that constricts
and strangles
but none of it is seen
because she’s poisoning, constricting, and strangling
herself
and soon she’ll be contorted,
distorted, disfigured and writhing
in a pool of her own poison
past the people she pushed
and rebuked, reprimanded.

and when he asks,
she’ll never know why.

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