by Cassandra de Alba
the times without blood on my hands,
a weakness. in a darkened room, silence
i should have broken open, made to scream
so loud it cracked the frosted glass.
i want a history of only strength. to confetti
the archives, melt the microfiche to slime.
history is written by the guilty, to absolve themselves.
does the sky ever let me out of its sight?
does shame leave the body? mine crawls
up my throat nightly, asking for water.
Cassandra de Alba’s work has appeared in Big Lucks, Underblong, and Smoking Glue Gun, among other publications. Her chapbooks are habitats (Horse Less Press, 2016) and ORB (Reality Hands, 2018). She is an associate editor at pizza pi press and co-host at the Boston Poetry Slam at the Cantab Lounge.