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E Kerr

The Gray Rock Method

She demands an answer—she wants

to hear me confess, fall

to my knees and beg for her


pardon, regardless of if I didn’t

tell anyone—she hisses liar and I

turn to stone. I know she feels


like Medusa among my stoic

presence, powerful with just

a glance in my direction. Cursed,


this form of petrification

would keep me safe if she

tried to carve me out—stone by


bone—whittled down to small

malleable pieces, that she would try

and mold into remnants of a daughter.

The History//The Witness

your god calls me,                                //

                 sinner—know every saint

kissed my body before it was               //

              sent down and preyed upon,

left with pain, and pain is not                //

       a baptism into genius. do you know

where my body is now                          //

        that its tissues decayed? there is no

grave, but I’ve begun                           //

    mourning boyhood like it was

something once lived.                          //

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