scars from sullivan || Abigail Gray

i still remember the embarrassment i felt
as i walked back to apartment number
three zero seven, from my manic sprint around the block,
tobacco stuck between my teeth and gums,
legs buckled inwards and shaking violently;

they saw my bloodshot eyes and
a red carton crunched in my fist;
eyes slipped over my tattered frame
found the bruises stamped in a row
on my bicep and chest, the skin
blotchy and sore as it turned the color of mulberries;
my hair was sticky with sweat, some dried
nestled among my dirty pores, while
the tiniest trickle of red tried to
slip down my leg.

they scrubbed the lacerations,
pressed ice cubes into new dents and
spoke honey into my shattered eardrums;
all i could hear were the 
echoes of my body, her soul 
retching into a bowl that echoed
my sins against a copy-pasted interior.
captive in the laminate washroom
the tub overflowed as my casket
sunk deep below the waves,
sudsy waters whispered in my ears,
“my, how dirty you have become on this night.”

Abigail Gray is mostly a writer, but also a full-time creature of the marshes who lurks in Earth’s beauty. Their work centers around nature, gender, the inner self, and mental health. They have spent their life collecting tokens as gifts for the birds and discovering new things about the world.

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