The Other Women
They are indelibly inked on me,
from crisp yellowed pages,
stained with orange fingerprints,
etched deeper than my epidermis
chiseled into bone.
The words of other women
gnawed their way in,
embedded in my entrails
They are swallowed down deep in me
from creaking cassette players,
cheap headphones crackling,
batteries rubbed together in cold hands for
just a few minutes more
to fill spaces of silence.
Hands held out-
I shout out with their voices,
swing my hips,
in time to their rhythm.
They are engraved on my eyelids,
that have slipped across screens
I blink their tales in,
drink their poise,
eat their courage,
nourish myself with their longing looks.
I appropriate their endings
compile their characteristics
fold them into my circuitry
Lori England is from Glasgow, Scotland. She is currently juggling studying for a BA (Hons) in English Literature and Creative Writing with the Open University with bringing up her own tiny girl gang. You can visit her online at lori-england.tumblr.com.
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