TRAGIC Poem: an uninvited greek chorus., by Sophia Heilman

The little girl nor young woman excite for growth
for the expansion of heart and mind and soul
for BLOOD and BONE and NAILS and TEETH.

The heart was birthed first, beating the WRONG time.
We—THEY—only noticed once it joined the symphony.

If BLEEDING hearts and SICK minds
were tumors and growths
we would cut you with
STAINED chemicals and bright lights.

We don’t want someone with a malfunctioning heart.
We’ll repair you. Make you whole.

We don’t like you like this.
We want the girl we knew,
I WAS never acquainted WITH.

THEY LEFT ME A LONG TIME AGO.
DISAPPEARED AFTER BEING BUTCHERED.

AND
I’M
THE
APHRODITE
THAT
ROSE
FROM
HER
BLOODY
CARCASS.

I AM YOUR LAST REMEMBRANCE OF
W A R.

You are a poor imitation of our little girl—
A SMALL CHILD WHO SHOULD HAVE BEEN SAFE,
SHOULD HAVE BEEN PROTECTED.
But you—LET THEM GO MISSING!
YOU WITNESSED THEIR EXECTUION!
AND YOU don’t have the right TO MISS

SOMEONE YOU HELPED BURY!

DON’T GO TO MY FUNERAL
WHILE I’M STILL screamING
FROM SIX FEET UNDER!
SawllowING THE DIRT
YOU THROW ON ME

DON’T dress ME IN THOSE CLOTHES,
AT MY WAKE. THEY’RE TOO tight.

THE AUTOPSY WOULDN’T BE your first time
SOMEONE pull up your skirt.
Don’t worry, I WILL be quiet and still
AND HOPE I look pretty for me.