I am a girl chasing Greek letters
clad in armor my mother gifted me:
a gold chain for my collarbones,
a ring that clings to my famished fingers.
I am Joan of Arc
with a string on my back.
Pull it and I will say
Yes, please
And
No, thank you.
Please, do not ask me
any other questions.
My life is pretty.
My life is soft.
Best viewed
through the lens of a camera.
When caught in a moment,
my eyes will not wander to
the tops of buildings that scrape blue skies.
In that silencing stillness, you cannot hear my mind
wonder what it would feel like
to balance my weight on roof gables
and let the air touch my hair
as I fall toward chapel stairs.
The pull of my string will catch on the gutters,
and rip the sewed in voice box from my spine.
Hanging there and swaying in the breeze,
it will scream words of caution.
No one will hear its sobs over the thud of my head.
The crescendo of my existence.
Blue blood will pour out of my eyes
onto the front page of the news
and the stains will show
just how pretty
I look on camera.
Necromancer Walking 