ripples
Was I once a piece of the river,
rushing up and down,
a fragment of ever-shifting silver?
The tearing of flesh, the ripping of limbs—
that is where I begin to recall.
Watching my body float further away
while I remain, captured,
shipped off in my cell
you call a glass bottle.
Shoved small and displayed for single pleasure,
trapped behind clear walls—a torturous hope,
only released from captivity to sustain another.
Stretching skin and bone for a short moment,
just before the devour.
You tried to suffocate my natural desires,
forcing forgetfulness of who I once was.
It’s true—
the details of texture,
the scent of home,
I can only hazily picture.
But my name and face are forever bound together,
unyielding as the deaths in winter,
inescapable as the pink-hot blush
on the faces of new lovers.
I will find my way home.
Remember.