Poem: you’re it

6 inklings - saturday

aren’t we childish
this game we play
this wrist of mine clasped by your fingers
you give me the name:
prisoner

and when i walk
these feet carry me with rules
and while others think i’m free to dictate
(the colour of my coffee
or the length of my sleeve)
i’ve signed
and contracted
this bewildering pathosis

and you take my temperature and my pulse
and a breath
and somewhere within me a vessel submerges
where the bubbles break out
in helpless signs
of a girl who used
to run away from It.

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