the death of my ars poetica christiana smith
stuck in this prison of their making | waiting to be freed | i will wait no longer | i will make them watch me from inside these bars | i will create a weapon that can slip between the gaps | pencil touches paper | the words are etched into their skin | burned into their brains | i will force them to watch | silenced | as their burns heal over as an open wound | i will force them to stay | echoing in their head until they are in the ground | buried and still never at rest | with my sapphic throat | i will sing for the whole choir that i am tender and yielding and sweet | that our love is not their forbidden fantasy | not their fetish | i will staple their eyes to my graphite on the paper | their lids pried open with my fingers | and when i read these words aloud | i will force them to understand | chain their ears to my lips so they can not miss a single word | i will force them to finally see | to finally hear | to finally comprehend reality | they will know that these words on the page are my oxygen | my water | my sustenance | but they refuse to let me free | my words strong enough to reach them | but not powerful enough to save me i have poetry for my last meal 20