♅POETRY ON THE FEMINISTA

The Salt of My Tongue

A Confession of All Things Bitter

The featured artwork was made by the author using ChatGPT.

I wake up —
a rusted bell inside me ringing
from some darkened hall —
its echo a rasp
shivering through bones.
I ache
in the way of stained glass,
a pattern cracked but fixed,
the pieces holding only
by habit, sheer force
of an old dream gone cold.

At the window, the city sprawls —
a hundred wet tongues lapping
at the smudged dawn.
There is grit
in the morning’s breath,
a taste I know like the back
of a matchbook thumbed open —
the sulfur sharp
against the skin, a flare
too bright and brief to trust.

I am tired of soft things,
the white walls, the carefully tended lies.
Every day I am a little more worn —
a threadbare coat, a split seam,
a mouthful of things
I meant to spit out.

Once, I thought love was a thing
that could keep you warm,
a woolen thing. Now I know
it’s nothing but salt
I grind between my teeth —
a memory held, dissolved.

I’m Ani Eldritch, Senior Editor of The Feminista. If you identify as a woman, come, write for us! If you’re interested, here are the submission guidelines. And, of course, thank you for reading.