“Speaking from experience,” she says, “the fastest way…”

The poet sits in the bare room, facing

Beige walls, red hair or spun gold?

Sitting on the cry of a newborn, stained brown over deep red wood

The embroidery in her hands, fingertips on blue as sharp as broken bones

The needle slips in and out

In and out

In and out

In

Her hands quiet like a

Stalking beast, sailing quietly through the grass, a mouthful of fear

Rests on the corners of her frown, her

Eyes wide as though she is the whisper of movement that disturbs the blades

Her skirt tugged under her shoes to hide the

Rabbit of a body, eyes wide as though she is the hole she hides in

Eyes wide as they flicker to each corner of the walls

Secrets as small as spider webs and equally as devastating, like ink

On the paper she now holds, shuffling beneath her palms, a quiet

Breath, soft as snakeskin

Is released

Her blind eyes, wide eyes, white eyes, stop on one corner, line meets line

Like lovers, she crosses her hands and smears the black across the page

Eyes closed

Lungs turn to both fang and fur, and breathing becomes the flee

Desperate and frenzied, internally, face revealing

Nothing yet, but soon…

“The fastest way to beat the silence,” she says,

“Is to scream.”

And so she does.