by Susan King Saunders
don't try to use me like a hole, dug out of dirt,
a drop spot for dead ideas about my identity.
i am not a ditch (void, and violable) a storage
for stench-held bags of garbage crammed, leaking.
don't try to clothe my eyes with a veil of vanity
so that i can't see, the dissection of my body.
i am not a pattern that can be altered by snip, snip
snipping until my pieces can be re-ar-ran-ged, distored.
i will not be buried alive; will not be blinded by pain.
pretend i don't exist. i will write myself again. sks
Last updated April 19, 2014