in this poem, you don’t hurl my body
against gravel as my memories
of you bleed into grief. my blood staining
the stones your favorite color: my hurt.
in this poem, i scream and someone hears.
when i’m released from your grip, your
fingers don’t leave imprints on my body.
in this poem, there is no reminder of the
parts of me you sliced open like a lab
experiment. like a dead animal
being dissected. in this poem, i don’t
need to unbandage my wounds
to be believed. the world sees you holding
the blade. in this poem, i stitch myself,
and the wounds, back together. i scrub
the knife clean of your reflection.
Annalisa Hansford’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in The West Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. They are probably listening to Gracie Abrams.