There it was
sticking up from the soil
like a skeletal hand from the crypt.
I didn’t expect it,
and to be honest,
I had stopped looking down
for quite a while.
It split my heel open
and curled around my ankle—
how could I
let it do me like this?
Strong
hold.
And now,
this ghost snake
has coiled around my insides—
my demons
barking out
ancient names
as if they’re in charge.
I can’t stop the tremoring
of a thin flame running through me,
a living Siberian ice maiden
with mercury blade.
It seems
this grief has no rules
and neither do
the nightmares I feel condemned to relive
while the mirror of my self-respect
asks me
if I really want to keep
doing this to myself.
Do you?
Do you?
Do you?
Just
stop.
Stop.
But, torment, too,
has no rules
when you’re split in two,
offering no answers
to questions
I can’t quite
bring myself to ask—
the mirrored me
begging to fracture completely
the us
I am
or bury the pretty,
dead-white, petal fist
in mudblood
until I am whole, and strong
enough,
to crush it
again.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner