It is dark in here and my fingers touch stone, a hollowed cave beneath tons of rock. How did I get here? I can guess. ‘You,’ I say, an accusation in my voice. ‘You showed me the cave. You’ve let me in!’ But it was me who sealed the exit. Like a cavewoman I am drawing your portrait in blood. I took it directly from my heart, because that is where you cut deepest. Later, much later I huddle in darkness more afraid then ever of what I might do. I dream of razorblades and knives, sharp objects in all their forms, torn skin and blood. I think about needles and scissors, the flame of a candle an endless fire. Sometimes of gurgling waters and Virginia Woolf filling her pockets with stones.
About the Poet:
Jessica Holzhausen is a writer and historian researching myths, narratives…
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