BRAVO, HOLLY!
Throw away those pages,
that pink littered landscape.
Where is the victory in pity?
Build your mansion of bones
and sorrow so deep it can
not be contained but spills
from the fissure of your heart.
Reach inside stretched
skin whose scars still sting.
There is no poetry
in swallowed pain,
of the temperate voice.
Those words are still born.
No life lives there,
no womb that has birthed
scorn and rage.
