Poem transcribed as performed.
We are sisters of trauma.
We whisper into the darkest corners of the night.
The secrets we scratched into walls as we gritted our teeth and forced screams from words.
We know barren corners, how many inches a bed is from a floorboard, how deep they will have to bury us to forget.
Different beds, same scenarios.
We convince ourselves, we make excuses, we wrap the noose tighter around our throats, telling ourselves that even bad men need love.
We know the reason why lullabies and cries rhyme, sweet sister he will make serenades out of you and sing them to other women. Now we are the bell tolled to warn the village that the bad men are coming.
We know what gun powder tastes like, how it feels to spit out ammunition only to be blamed for a war you did not start.
What is a pawn left to do when there is no one there to guide it? We ask into the shallow void, the emptiness before the sand drips into unmeasured time.
We are the game left unfinished in an abandoned house, a memory, a nudge to the cranium, a guess on a late-night that keeps you awake.
The persistent cry that makes the man stare up at the ceiling, wondering if he forgot something.
Kenya Burton Poetry 