axe her bones apart. don't worry, she won't be fine.
owl-eyes of justice, you mutter at the trees,
as if the bird would peck her body apart like vultures
that doesn't exist in this land. both vultures and owls

don't exist in this land, but as you cradle her fractured
face, cracks frothing-bubbling black, you wished they did.
this is not nice, she said to you, when you tried your best
to not reduce her into something that isn't her. you, trying

to rip me apart, that's not nice. but you wanted to do that
anyway. it eats at you: the image of her face, luminous in
the pale sunlight, warmth only blinding–the dark goo misplaced
from its night. she's rotting, now, see: fingers threaded with

the earth. veins and arteries: xylem and phloem. her flesh,
a puddle of earth and blood, seeping into your shirt: that's
what you did. that's what you did, you idiot. your measly fingers
on her bomber jacket, army green melting into the ground

you're both against. she is silent. you're just staring. you feel her
clutching your grey sweater, eyes only steel, but you know
you're only staring at bark and rot.

MADINA MALAHAYATI is a fifteen year-old girl that lives in a country that doesn’t exist inside your head, spends her time crying over the currency rates of rupiah to US dollars, and angrily staring at the prices of books in her opentrolley want list. She can be found on Twitter at @falsecatch.