They want for the marrow of her bones, to crack the calcium and
sweeten their songs
To them her silence is rubies to wear in their glories, but she
is a pirate who inked not one
map to their treasure
Silence is a weakness, a plague of her senses, how could she not
want to give voice to the
angers
Some deaths are murders, to never resurrect in her and she knows
this like the chainmail
she wears as flesh on her bones
Throats were slit in art burned on the pyre of pain she erected
on a night she conjured
vultures to make love of her offerings, swallowing
tongues ripped from festering guts
So bottom feeders stick to leeches bleeding your own masses dry,
she only lets close those
who see beyond their eyes
E.A. O'Connell
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