it was nine when the clocks melted into bombs. / each ticking face was mine. / curled away in damp peach rooms / my eyes leaking a quiet violence. / i was prey. /  in the arms of an emptiness that licked my cheek. / the rot erupted / beneath my tongue. / defiant against petaled blades / yet oozing for her "good girl"s each morning. / at thirteen, i pressed my ear against her hands just so the voices behind my voice could scream. / in the blackness of daughter country, i knock and hear a knock. / splintered awake. / volcanic fists. / fevered bottles. / the era of mothers raging. / mouths of oiled blades. / cardiac tissue in ribbons. / left to quiver like thunder as my throat attempts to drown / in what i’m told is love. / and all our lilies blacken.