Poetry by Anne Walters

               ​Jeff Ruane CC




Road Map 


We are snakes
all over your body,
the parts of yourself 
you created when your
feelings caved in on themselves.
We criss-cross 
constellations, 
mapping out the 
years of your family 
shrinking 
and your mood 
as dark as the bottom of an
abyss.
For most of us, you
don't remember 
when or where 
we came from. 
It's a magician's trick;
one day, your skin was 
smooth honey,
and then presto!
We appeared through
blood-soaked tissues 
you flushed down the toilet 
to hide the evidence.
A few of us stick out:
a single line on your right wrist,
part of a suicide attempt;
a thick mark on your thigh
from when you were so
angry, 
you used a knife to scream.
Sometimes people 
ask questions about us:
"Oh, where did they 
come from?"
Or
"Is that part
of a BDSM thing?"
Your mouth is a desert
and you feel 
pinpricks on the back
of your neck 
until they cough and 
move on. 
But we're always 
here,
pulsing with hurt. 

​

Anne Walters is a queer non-binary writer who lives in New Jersey. They have been published in East Coast Literary Review, The Avenue, Three Moon Magazine, among others. They enjoy drinking too much coffee and hanging out with their cats.

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