Her kind

Whom she learned the art or dissonance of protest from

Whether it was ingrained or born on hot kitchen towel like fresh bread

Rising, the irresistible urge to devour all whilst fresh

She couldn’t say

But catching herself

Playing little shadow games

It became clear

Like the women before her she was not

A straight talker

For she was unable to speak plainly

She hurt all over

Her whole self would have confessed

Oh timorous Lord

I don’t seem capable of much

It is enough to keep my head on my shoulders?

The ache the screw the twist

I am tired before I have woken

Because truth be told

Humanity sickens my soul

And when you hate your own

There’s nowhere to go

 

They tried

Oh they tried

To interest her in their tête à tête

And she grew sickly

And incomplete

Only the circulated vowels of earth

Could ease her need

To be freed

Of her kind

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