Speaking Voiceless

A thing that remains after
is finished or ended.

What is                                    I was six,
left                                           at first.
over                                         He was
from rape?                               30-something?
                                                In a child’s eyes
The making of this dish           all men are
was heat                                  ancient.
in slow coils of electric
dark-haired arms
small limbs
like bird bones and a
fluttering heart.

my history grows like neon
mold, rainbows of color
sick twisting of life
on leftovers.

I am tired of taking
apart words to
find their meanings.


Written in response to The Daily Post writing challenge for this week,here. Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.

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