by Nick Gisburne
Her mother’s needles, rhythmic as they wrote,
Remind her of the fight to find her worth.
With ash and ink, the runes around her throat
Suppress a secret, stripped and sold at birth.
To find and free the soul, the spirit, hers,
She traces every torment with her tongue.
Each tattooed symbol, primed with power, blurs,
And from their mist a memory is sprung.
The thief was someone precious, someone dear.
She knows the voice, the way in which it spoke.
Enraged, she feeds her hatred, starves her fear,
With tears of black and scarlet, blood and smoke.
There can be no relief from what was read
Until she sees her twisted mother dead.
