Cut

"...seeping into the wrinkles of pressed pages...."

Cut

Cut, my blood fills the blank page
as has all my foremothers’ blood before me,
seeping into the wrinkles of pressed pages
spreading into the cuneiform shapes of images
filling the lines with words, fresh and young,
and yet so deeply cut by the winds of time.

Chapped and gnarled skin pulls away 
at the base, the red of the incision marring
pale skin that died as soon as it had peeled
and my hand smudged its own ink, then,
onto the pages of time and the pages, mine,
blew to the floor in this cold, cold room. 

Why have we pained ourselves like this so long,
if only to hide our truth in the words we write?
They will never really know our story, 
or recognize the ink in our blood.

©2024   @StaceyBattlestheWorld