Tag: survivor poetry

The Archivist

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The diary of your latest test object.

Close-up photo of black and white journal
Photo by Min An

What a curse, what a privilege,

Looking through the director’s cuts in my memory,

Playing videos on my phone in an infinite loop

Until I’m sure of your covert treachery.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

I dig through the pages until my fingers bleed.

Your gags come back to me in waves until I choke,

Spiraling deeper, sinking toward the ocean floor.

They said it was a joke.

The panic attacks,

Sleepless nights,

Nosebleeds,

Fights,

Rashes,

Emotional downfalls,

Mascara dripping off my lashes.

…a JOKE?

My eyes were soulless, my skin bruised and ashen.

My friends told me we could outrun the death wish,

But we don’t talk about the winter of 2024 anymore,

At least not since demise herself told me to perish.

Humor.

Revenge.

Picking sides.

Dead ends.

I’m not sure how I found my way to the lighthouse.

The fog lifted one day, yet I waited for the waves to return.

Waited for your words to serve as the anchor.

Even silence scared me, quiet made my stomach churn.

Nothing.

Peace.

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Routines kept me alive, ink kept me sane.

The grapevine was quiet until a message came through.

A broken sea creature dropped on my doormat,

And I almost stepped on it before realizing it was you.

Obsessed.

Paralyzed.

Greedy.

Antagonized.

I lock the door to keep you out,

Hoping you don’t turn into a sea monster,

But nothing’s promised.

I’ve escaped dozens of nooses,

Even mine,

But yours was the only one that called me alarmist.

Until the day that you rot,

Until my stomach’s in knots,

We will watch each other in perfect symmetry,

Crowds wondering who deserves the penalty.

Keep wondering.

Guess.

I kept the records.

Kept the mess.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

-Jackie

Vulture’s Song

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A vulture perching on a tree branch
Photo by Denitsa Kireva

The ice dagger melted hours ago,

The ghost hands holding it slipped off my waist.

Still, blood trickles down my side when I breathe in.

Knees buckle, hips hurt, head spins in most directions.

The lines and shapes blur into gnarly visions.

No.

Not even death is safe for me here.

Is it a murder if a woman dies without someone to hear?

No, not like this.

I just have to drag these bones a little further down the road

Where other people might notice what he’d done to me.

The small pieces of glass in my lungs burn,

And when I cough, I imagine it’s wine on my sleeve.

Pulp, bubbles, and fizz.

Maybe it is.

He got me drunk on some unholy spirit,

Forced twisted romance plots in my mind where he was the god,

And I was a love interest looking for a savior.

My feet got burned at the stake while on my best behavior.

There’s an arrow where my heart should be.

I must’ve forgotten to pull it out,

And, I’m not going to lie, the poison really helps to keep going,

Rowing my soul down a river that might never end.

Miles pass by, days become weeks,

I start wondering—how much blood could there be?

Seems like even my body survives just to spite him.

He cried crocodile tears when I left,

Then put a boot on my neck and wished me good luck.

I can feel his thoughts taunting me like a hyena,

Following me in an old truck,

Haunting my skull like it’s an abandoned arena.

Little did he know I’ve outrun worse.

“A vulture can heal her wing, a vulture can fly again.”

It hurts.

Still hurts.

Even when I step on the road.

When a car picks me up.

When the nurse tells me to take a breath.

“A vulture can wait him out.”

But it stings.

Bones mend slowly, you know.

Sorrow rises, then it falls like snow.

Sun rises, then it sinks like a ship.

And my wing moves.

My wings work.

Talons are sharper than ever.

He taught me how to stay quiet and still.

Blood leaves his cheeks when he spots me on his windowsill.

-Jackie