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Your truth feels like a derailed train on my backbone and below me, a ravine who knows nothing apart from what has been thrown down her throat.
The gapped bridge hangs in the balance with centuries of pedestrians - loosening it’s hold between a narrative and those unlucky to have been swallowed.
You’ve walked to the edge to stand on my fingers whispering to me, “Precipice.” Whispering to me “Fall.” So when the cliff took sides, you could only hope that I’d suffer.
I finished here, wondering of a vultures preference for intestine or tendon. And I smiled while you pecked out my eyes to fill the void and tasted you pretend I’m not you’re only home.
Copyright ©
Bethany Eppley
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