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  • Writer's pictureAnna McNutt

Well, I'm not nice at all

My body is a battlefield,

a treasurer of the unspeakable.

It is wired internationally,

but crimes occur unnoticed.

New families seek refuge under my arms,

colonies form in my belly and burst out.

My stomach has been trampled over a hundred times.

There are dry bloodstains on my shoulders,

fresh wound cuts on my elbow,

and my wrists are broken from pushing out of this two-by-four prison.

My flesh, a sentence

containing wars in one body.

They’ve left scars on my knees;

burn marks at the bottom of my feet.

Secret services hide behind my ears,

they tell me things no one wishes to hear.

Terrorists crawl in my hair

until violence breaks out across my face,

my eyes pools of mud,

dead bodies laid across my mouth,

my tongue, a gravestone for those without names.

My back is a dessert,

a dry landscape, filled with bombs and broken hope,

drones fly over my spine, marking their territory in shadows,

and I sleep at night

Amongst the cries of dying men,

women screaming for their loss,

children weeping over the cause.


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