“FOSSILS”

like the lonely white oak tree 

my resentment is growing 

stronger, its roots anchoring 

themselves to my intestines

as you, empty glared, mean

mouthed, you sweep sweep 

sweep abuse under the rug, 

a futile attempt to feel clean,

looking tired from sleepless 

nights of hiding under your 

pillow the needle and thread 

you sewed my mouth shut with,

now it’s rotten by the poison you

spat into it, blackened by the secrets 

you fed, teeth falling like snowflakes 

from biting down on themselves.

oh what a masterful artisan, 

you made a delicate thing

your dumping ground of disaster, 

your graveyard of shame,

now you can’t bear the sight of its owner

walking down the hall,

with its blueish green bruises,

relics of your moldy touch, and 

that dent on its left side, one more

reminder of your selfish load,

what a frightening sight must it be,

the broken pawn outside your chessboard.

M.L. January ‘25