The clock glows above me.


Big Day,

I'm no longer a girl Day. 


Women's Day,

But in the middle of July. 


Two days later, she's dead 

I'm here. 

Waiting for my turn, wondering


What if it had been me on that train platform, 

cold and lifeless in front of my sister's eyes. 

Slain down, young martyr. 


Say her name, I can't 

My voice as hoarse as Red's 

newly freed from her chains and tunnels. 


There's no happy glow up, 

no new boobs no nice ass. 

Suddenly slim thicc and acne free. 


The only glow is the clock above my head

Ticking away the days 

the hours, minutes, seconds 

before it's me on that autopsy table.


If  I'm lucky? Maybe eighty years. 

If I'm not? eighty days. 


I hear that tick tick tick every day now

The numbers glow in my eyes

I grow and I grow 

and so does the size of my casket. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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