Twenty-three. Soft and supple,
scorching like a twister
in a mint green dress and bare feet.
I am a woman, and you are the crumbs
of earth that I have been force-fed
for far too long.
Stuck still in shapes of made-up words,
skipping records and pink tape haircuts.
Scampering out of the light, I am
a cockroach under your corrective shoes.
You are a safety suit filling with water;
you are a choking death
as all the stars flicker out,
the moon too dim to light the way home.
Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who is unapologetically raw. Follow her work on Twitter: @apoetrybomb.