How would you feel—
A rustic shovel, blunt and red,
buries itself in you,
thrust after thrust,
pain ripples throughout your muscles,
and pulses, shakes, throbs,
like a wave,
and your limbs
trembling incessantly,
as though terror was a sea
and you were lost in the midst of it—

How would you feel—
To exist in filth,
heaps of stained paper and rotting food,
a foul aroma,
sickens, teems,
clouds of flies rise from waste,
pools of vomit,
festering condoms,
slabs of meat like butchered dolls
pile and boil in hot, thick hills,
and shit, piles of it,
stagnant, stale, sinks inside you—

How would you feel—
To be hacked,
slashed, beaten,
infused, starved,
gnawed, raped,
sawed, hammered,
crushed, forsaken,
whored, sliced,
dug and shot—

How would you feel—

Why don’t you ask for yourself?
She waits,
eyes transcend with intelligence,
scarred with pain,
Her voice, a movement in the trees,
a dropping leaf, and there,
in her most holy ground,
She’ll talk to you,
And you can say that you want her,
that you want to rape,
beat, use, and kill her,
force your hands around her corded neck,
and squeeze,
than whisper in her ear,
gently,
and tell her you want her to die for her kindness.

It won’t be long,
She grows weak.
Every day is harder than the one before it,
As her veins slowly drain
with every leveled acre,
with every poisoned stream,
and her tears, scraped with sandpaper,
bleed her dry body.

When the time comes,
she’ll scream.
The mountains will crack in terror,
the sky will scream to the ground.
Everyone will shed their ignorance,
and know how she’s suffered.

How would you feel—
To have the life you give so freely,

ripped from you?

Contact: JohSha17@Evergreen.edu