When the Voice Comes by A.S. Ford

Laying still and curled up small,

the world dims and becomes quiet,

heart beating so hard it numbs

beats,

bangs,

bruises

the rib cage.

The disembodied voice

whispers,

shouts,

fills

  the room

demanding what it calls ‘forgiveness’,

for another chance,

while trying to hide the deceit

that lies so heavy on its tongue

drying out its throat to cease the words.

It is only seeking the power

that it once had:

a throne and a crown

of delusion,

fear

and pain

that I usurped,

keep locked away

no matter how much the voice pleads.

To destroy the throne and crown

is a temptation and desire,

but even just a glimpse of those

metals with their peeling gold plating

is enough to bring the voice back

to drown this room once more.

Family Photos, 1879 by A.S. Ford

The petticoat slides down

her breasts and legs,

the corset is cut.

Click … click

Thirteenth birthday a week ago,

ginger cake and bitter lemonade.

Now locked in the secret room

with her father’s silhouette.

Click. Click.

Sprawled on the bed,

a death pose,

he throws her a single sheet

to hide one thing but show the rest.

Click. Click … Click.

She watches him while he directs;

too scared to touch her

too eager to stop …

Click.

Says she should forgive him

that it is somehow normal.

.

..

Later

he will remove his breeches

for those framed moments.

While she cries, wondering

how long until

                        those won’t be enough.