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another roadkill poem
the first time we drive past the
dead dog, we both cry.
you talk about your father
and the backyard deer. the gun
and your fist. the guilt, swallowing
you whole and never stopping
to lick its lips.
i tell you i know what that
much blood feels like on my hands,
that sometimes we deserve forgiveness
when the knife is forced into our hands.
see, we weren’t always an un-soft thing.
it’s just that your body never unlearned the
violence of that winter and mine was
never taught when to stop fighting.
it’s just that the warning lights came
and all i got was another poem
about the antithesis of survival,
about how easy it is to flavor
a good thing rotten.
the dog on the side of
the road, my heart in the palm
of your hand. two dead things, forever
resting with the thing that killed them.
and every day, remembering. every
day, the quiet. every day, handing
you the same knife and
kissing its cold edges.
lips, still bleeding, even so long after.
s. osborn is seventeen and just trying to stop the bleeding. she stands firmly against capitalism, capital letters, and most things that don’t involve chai tea. a north carolina native, she loves mountains, good books, and reading her best friends’ poetry. in another lifetime she was probably a woodland sprite, but in this one she’ll settle with just putting words together.