It is dark in here and my fingers touch stone, a hollowed cave beneath tons of rock. How did I get here? I can guess. ‘You,’ I say, an accusation in my voice. ‘You showed me the cave. You’ve let me in!’ But it was me who sealed the exit. Like a cavewoman I am drawing your portrait in blood. I took it directly from my heart, because that is where you cut deepest. Later, much later I huddle in darkness more afraid then ever of what I might do. I dream of razorblades and knives, sharp objects in all their forms, torn skin and blood. I think about needles and scissors, the flame of a candle an endless fire. Sometimes of gurgling waters and Virginia Woolf filling her pockets with stones.
About the Poet:
Jessica Holzhausen is a writer and historian researching myths, narratives and fictional re-telling of historic events, especially the impact this had on identity building processes in the 19th and 20th century. Jessica currently lives and works in Oxford and writes short stories, murder mysteries and poetry.