Weaving nettle shirts was easy enough –
pulling the stinging threads across the loom
only leaves my skin feeling torn and rough.
The silence: that stings. In my quiet room,
I hunger for words, as my tongue stays trapped.
Pulling the stinging threads across the loom,
I try to forget, to keep myself wrapped
against laughter. My fingers burn. And yet
I hunger for words, as my tongue stays trapped
in this seven year silence, this rough net
of freedom and spells, where I must still hold
against laughter. My fingers burn. And yet.
I pick up a dark feather, not consoled,
thinking of whispers in a lover’s ear,
of freedom and spells. Where I must still hold
to my rough weavings, where each voiceless year
only leaves my skin feeling torn and rough,
thinking of whispers in a lover’s ear.
Weaving nettle shirts was easy enough.
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