the siren calls, it pulls the laces
that hold my arms, legs, attach my ribs.
i am not the nightmare.
mist and fog made thick from evaporating
repressed anger out of my nose
out of our girlish mouths and hips
envelopes my wrists, my fingers.
we are prisoners
repeating the same phrases
in shapeless rooms.
watching these men finally feel guilt
(for actions they so loved)
and make monsters of themselves.
when i am pressed under your pyramid palms,
i halve myself.
so that the dream functions to remind you
of every bruise on my face and neck
in the shape of your teeth.
you misunderstand the meaning of this place.
(it is not your resolution.)
the other girls come for me and lick tender
sugar off my plum flavored lips.
these shattered soot girls, the reminder
for other men-monsters and their father-guilt.
the grey daughters pull me away.
open their volcano mouths and burn,
with the siren call we destroy the world.
ryn weil is a hermit who lives with bees, dogs, deer, and bears. they were previously published in Occulum, Riggwelter Press, Rising Phoenix Review, and Luna Luna Magazine. You can find ryn rambling at @snow_and_soot.