And I watched

He hit her, twice. Thursday, I

met a girl who lost something.

She still rubs her molars warm

eleven days later. Her

biceps tensed against the drywall,

but did not flinch. Where did she

go? Juiced, her sternum hides a

hypocrite. But she insists

he was right to say: “Don’t feel

that. It’s a love tap.” Dizzy

dove lost her muchness and I’ve

never been more disappointed.

I watched her form in her stale

blanket cocoon. She is a

pillaged bookcase. The first scoop

was dislodged from her shelf

in August. Cliché Model

Pickup Line said she cannot

really be a word lord

because her body is better

in a rouge window display.

Seven more cookbooks were snitched

because her frosting disappoints.

“Don’t look like that.” The order

is that she must be sexier.

Cut her hair for… him? Never

mattered if she liked it smooth

like coffee. On Thursday

the last cuff was coiled on

her wrists while she watched.

Her consent was not given

for inferior status.

Her screams were never heard.

I watch her homeless shelves grow

stretchmarks. I refuse to know

her, but I will kiln my muchness.

Published by Alanna Backen

Hi, I’m Alanna Backen. Welcome to my writing pad. I'm an aspiring author hoping to change the world for the better, one word at a time. Let's make some good fruit!

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