His hungry hands on her frame reek of despair and dirt. And when she tries to speak he swallows her breath down his throat, a reminder that this skin she once called her home is his.
Maybe he is right. With our hands tied to our lips we, the softest, can only sit still and watch as they take a handful of our sweetness.
But don’t they know that it’s poison?
We have learned how to plant grenades in the ribcage they curled their bodies into and how to hide knives in the tongue where they buried their sins.
Don’t they know that we’re poison?
Our body is a gun painted the color pink and decorated with sunflowers and daisies. It is dipped in cinnamon and vanilla but it is always loaded.
Bite us, she whispers, and we’ll bite back. Aim at us and we’ll pull the fucking trigger.