TO BE A WOMAN

Seren Catherall-Jones

When I die, all I ask is you feed me to the fir tree forest.
The moss a warm blanket to cover me,
Puffball mushrooms my pillow.
The trenchant teeth of canines would forever be kinder than any man.

I would much rather be a half-dead carcass
Being feasted upon by African wild dogs
Than ever have you lay eyes upon me again.
Let the dust encapsulate my skin bare,
Peel back the periosteum as it morphs into the marrow,
My skeleton’s mere replica made from sand, shell, rock.

Like a parasite you push and wedge yourself
Into the indents of my muscles.
Tearing apart my lungs
To sew them into the worn soles of your boots.

To be a woman is to perform.
So, blowtorch my sand-filled fingers until they crystallise,
Shove bolts into my ball joints and position me
However you see fit,
I would rather be cursed eternally than dance at your command,
Boy.

Now I am clear-skinned with crimson tears illuminating my heartbeat,
May my death bring you mortal cheer.
I hope the destruction of my soul made you happy. Did it?
I didn’t think so.

You do not get to commit your sins and make me feel sorry for your consequences.