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Entry tags:
Poetry
Why were you unsuccessful? What went wrong? Where are you now? What of the body? Where is the body? Where is your body, Ms. █████?
You wanna know what I did with the body? What is a body, anyway? Known only because someone called it so. Without my consent. Awarded me this trophy. Covered in fingerprints, dust & grime. The body should be on trial. Fuck, the body is a trial. My memory, a field of landmines. I blink and everything I have tried to forget blows up in my face. The shrapnel, that is where I exist. In the rations of everything that has happened to me. Not in a body. So, I tried to get rid of it. Use it against itself. If you look hard enough down the throat of a bottle. You’ll find it. Lying, almost lifeless, somewhere between death and freedom.
— Roya Marsh, from “in broad dayligGht suicidal black girls look guilty”
You wanna know what I did with the body? What is a body, anyway? Known only because someone called it so. Without my consent. Awarded me this trophy. Covered in fingerprints, dust & grime. The body should be on trial. Fuck, the body is a trial. My memory, a field of landmines. I blink and everything I have tried to forget blows up in my face. The shrapnel, that is where I exist. In the rations of everything that has happened to me. Not in a body. So, I tried to get rid of it. Use it against itself. If you look hard enough down the throat of a bottle. You’ll find it. Lying, almost lifeless, somewhere between death and freedom.
— Roya Marsh, from “in broad dayligGht suicidal black girls look guilty”