by Anastasia Jill

It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!

______________________________________________________________________

She has a home,
A beautiful home,
Inhumed on the pages
Where she draws—

She was never good at history,
So we recreate our own
Laced in paint,
Like on a cave,
In various colors.

There are rocks in my blood
To be unearthed,
Martial secrets
Stowed inside her kidneys
That can only come out in a lie.
We can’t lie to each other.
Instead, we settle for truth.

And this, right here, is my truth:
She is lawful, and that scares me.
What’s more, she senses the chickens
Poking fun at my marrow with their beaks,
Giving my shadow room to breathe,
A chance to escape.

She sees the other girls
Who’ve left me alone in bed,
The men who’ve forced me
To stay in theirs.
She sees that I feel unlovable,
Undeserving of her crafts.

She picks up a pencil,
She sees me, still,
And continues to draw.

The woman on the page is strong,
Virtuous as a helmet.
There is aftermath that’s not my fault—
I am standing tall, but that’s not
The real focus.

There are walls behind me,
Two arms, and a roof.
There is nothing holding it up.
We are all free-standing structures. 

This home, it is beautiful.
She made it just for me.
This may be just a story,
But it’s one she tells
Until it's our truth.

Fabulist me;
I want to hear it one more time.

______________________________________________________________________

Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in Central Florida. She has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, The Pushcart Prize, and several other honors. Her work has been featured or is upcoming with Poets.org, Sundog Lit, Pithead Chapel, Contemporary Verse 2, OxMag, Broken Pencil, and more. Follow her on Instagram @anastasiajillies.

by Anastasia Jill

She has a home,

A beautiful home,

Inhumed on the pages

Where she draws—

She was never good at history,

So we recreate our own

Laced in paint,

Like on a cave,

In various colors.

There are rocks in my blood

To be unearthed,

Martial secrets

Stowed inside her kidneys

That can only come out in a lie.

We can’t lie to each other.

Instead, we settle for truth.

And this, right here, is my truth:

She is lawful, and that scares me.

What’s more, she senses the chickens

Poking fun at my marrow with their beaks,

Giving my shadow room to breathe,

A chance to escape.

She sees the other girls

Who’ve left me alone in bed,

The men who’ve forced me

To stay in theirs.

She sees that I feel unlovable,

Undeserving of her crafts.

She picks up a pencil,

She sees me, still,

And continues to draw.

The woman on the page is strong,

Virtuous as a helmet.

There is aftermath that’s not my fault—

I am standing tall, but that’s not

The real focus.

There are walls behind me,

Two arms, and a roof.

There is nothing holding it up.

We are all free standing structures. 

This home, it is beautiful.

She made it just for me.

This may be just a story,

But it’s one she tells

Until it's our truth.

Fabulist me;

I want to hear it one more time.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Anastasia Jill is a queer poet, fiction writer, and aspiring filmmaker. Her work has been published or is upcoming with Poets.org, Lunch Ticket, FIVE:2:ONE, Ambit Magazine, apt, Into the Void Magazine, 2River, Requited Journal, and more.