being a woman
is forever an unfinished business
we are used to departing souls
we are used to being looked through

we move and are not moved
we are the creak on the stair
we are the cool air
on the back of your neck

we are the stuff of nightmares
but we’re grieving
for the person we were

tied to our gravestones like a marriage
we are the tragedy in the window
the widow in the moors
we are smoke and vapours

forever with you
we are the cold lips against your cheek
and the rattling of chains

we were alive once, too

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