Livestock
Aristotelis Vasilios Mihalopulo, Otep Shamaya, Tristian Wallace
It began
With a pen
In my hand
Stabbed
In the center of chaos
To write out the light
That lives within me
That sought to break
The darkness
Eating me alive
For hours I would sit
Dreaming, drawing
Writing, believing
My arm in a sling
One eye swollen shut
Whispering
There would be a way out
There must be
A way out
Focused
On the paper
On the floor
That held me
Heavy as a stone
In the corner
Of that tiny room
Floating on a river
Of Imagination
Isolated
On my knees
Seeded in the soil
With girls
Younger than I
Holding their backs
Arching puffed bellies
Stuffed full with their
Infected children
Celestial incest
Terrestrial insects
We slept in boxes
That doubled as coffins
Because
Some were smart enough
To die
But not I
Stubborn little cyclops
I
Was destined
To fight