No. I will not warp my core
to stop you flaying my flesh.
I trip over temple stones
as you strip me. I must not run.
You refuse to reason. Bristle
at my tribon as if it spins sorcery,
rips the seams of your clout.
My thoughts branch like tributaries
as you coil around me.
I once believed anyone could be taught
that one thread weaves everything:
the curvature beneath our feet
copper sunlight diffusing in dust
the geometry of literature
mirrored in spirals of corals.
Shards lance into me. I caterwaul.
I will not bow.
Why savage what you can’t control?
You fail to see that by flogging me, you
ossify. All skeletons crumble in time.
The last grain of sand to leave my bulb will
be the first to drop from your hourglass.
Runner-up, Edwin Markham Prize (2026)
First Published by Reed Magazine