we are all
voyeurs
of tragedy
until
we have
become
the tragic
flay
strips
of raw
pulsing
skin
off my back
in your search
in your grasping
need
to take
pieces of me
you will have to
hold me down
this time
I will not go
peacefully
I will not
acquiesce demurely
there is nothing
kind
or peaceful
or polite
about tragedy
I am not yours
your prying eyes
and sickly sweet
solicitations
make me reach
for my knives
when my claws
have been rendered
to bloody stumps
we are all
voyeurs
until we
aren’t
17 May 2018
