Bloody Sunday

i am alive, standing up with my chin out,
my jaw rock-hard and syncing with the crags
and their creases—today is still just motion
where i bear the fissures of the earth like a bottle cap,
rigid and slick beyond the grace and stillness
of gravity's pull. i am pregnant
with boisterous vigor and the pound-for-pound trend
from indignity: there is only one silver screen where i can show the scales
of my upwardly rigor; proteted from inspections of the divine
and simply left unedited.
i am the box cutter, dulled, that formally broke someone's skin
after swipe-swipe-swipe, digging a trench to keep
the outlandish bound from forcing through
into death. i am a gallon bucket of menstrual blood.
i am doomed to live with an elastic wristband
that pinches my flesh but i endure just to have
at least a tricking from you there, near my pulse.

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