Virginia by Jessica Holzhausen

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…