Poem by Anne Six // Artwork by Clair Wainwright
Poem by Anne Six // Artwork by Clair Wainwright
You crafted me to be curio, tainted by your torment,
my body transformed into your personal playground,
like a candle, you lit me up and revelled in my suffering.
I slept on sticky sheets, drenched in the sugar that dripped off your lips,
showering me in sweetness and false emotion,
separating my limbs as I sliced holes in my breath.
Your voice was a razor that grazed my skin, disguised as wool,
claiming to comfort and lavish me with warmth,
instead creating barcodes of pain, to be identified as yours.
I allied you with bottles, pretty and appealing, seemingly harmless,
with intent to excite and foment, my discretion askew,
sipping on your liquid until tempting became toxic.
You trapped me in rigour, whispering scolding words in harsh tones,
branding my thighs with purple and blue,
my insides with smoke and nicotine.
I mistook your test of docility as an expression of care,
your grip on my hips as an attempt to shelter and secure,
the marks you left on my throat as a poem assigned as mine.
