Stitching Bones~ Susan Richardson

If it’s perfection you seek then look no further. Be schooled in the art of soul tattooing, open wide your synaptic gap because the arcing pulse is a sweet megavolt slam.


I have known the murmur of rage all my life,
writhing inside my veins like serpentine flash.
I resign myself to the ache of living in captivity.
Garlands of anger cascade over the edges of
pedestals carved from violence and shackle me
to walls covered in the scent of rancor.
I climb into the teeth of misery.
She is a vice that clamps my mouth silent,
turning my words into shards of hatred
that burrow into the back of my throat.
The strike of a serrated refrain crumbles me
into silage, feeding the roots of an unbearable
noise that lingers in the hum of my blood.
I sink quietly into the clamor,
stitching my bones with filaments of patience.
One day, I will emerge, voice mended,
a battalion of embers on my tongue,
and incinerate your mocking grin.

©Copyright Susan Richardson 2018

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