The woman in the mirror
has scars on her belly
and a sword through her heart
She is somebody
that I used to know
before her secret
ripped the seams of her soul
A cold and empty tree
suspended in longing
for seeds that wouldn’t
bounce and die
in her wilderness.
Her bedtime stories untold
claws up the walls of her throat
reminding her
there are no children
just pinpricks in empty space.
