& the truth is, I could have
done it. Could have ripped

the animal from my jaw,
could have bruised the bone

of this body until it gave way. 
But some things don’t spark

right & I know my name now.
Twelve sinners poured over

for the saint we all knew couldn’t
be, but we’re still here. The whole

time we choked quiet like a learned 
thing & thought how when the body

folds out what it cannot open, 
we too can shape a crease. 

—

Mary Sims is a 19-year-old poet and writer published in The Poetry Annals, Kingdoms of the Wild, Mooky Chick, Anatolios Magazine, Moonchild Magazine, and more. She is currently working on her BA in English, and spends her days reading, collecting books, and exploring antique shops.

Find her on Twitter: @rhymesofblue

Feature Image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash