Rambling to Persephone:

Opening up feels like being autopsied.
Especially when, especially when, especially when,
The gloved hands have no obligation,
Or apparent desire to be gentle.

Your pulse races like a river current. The words:
tell me, so tell me, tell me, about yourself like scalpels gliding,
tracing a butterfly incision. You keep seeds in your back pocket
like throwing knives, in case of the need to be resilient.

But your splayed out, laying there regardless, like the Vitruvian man,
A mystery waiting, wishing to be solved. A work of art, forged
with blood sweat, and tears, you spell spitter, you witch, you
red paint pentagram.

At the mercy of whoever now. At the risk of anyone now.
Persephone, the pharmacist with my meds, was just
on the phone right now. I worry my words will blossom,
malignant, that forever no one will even want to dig in,

now that the hell is digging up out of me, even for nothing.
Even when all that I am, is scared. Even when all that I need,
is just for someone to hold my hand.

Grace E Wagner is a poet, and nervous system in recovery. She lives in Fort Wayne IN, and holds a degree in Creative Writing, from Ball State University. Grace loves butterflies and drinks too much coffee. Her poetry says everything she can’t articulate linearly. These poems, are for Nelli.