by Brianna Malotke
she didn’t feel the tall grass
scratch her bare legs
as she made her way
through the empty field
emerging from the silent forest
her witness.
every so often the sound of a twig
breaking brought her out
of her hazy trance.
only once did she notice
the stains on her skin,
darker than her favorite cabernet.
the thought gave her a dry taste
that lingered in her mouth
and on her mind.
she knew her bare feet
must have scratches and cuts,
and that her skin
would be cold to the touch.
but her bones were strong
and her heart kept pumping
as she kept moving forward.
her skin, once flawless,
now stained and scared
but not fragile, nor delicate,
like it was once regarded.
she made her way through the tall grass
her bare feet connecting with dirt
with every step she made
away from the darkness behind her.
her once dainty hands
now capable of unimaginable acts
held onto the stone, that
had provided her with freedom.
memories would not fade
but her captor would
until nothing but bones
would remain in place.
and so, she smiled
just ever so slightly,
as she made her way through the tall grass
away from the forest
and secrets behind her.
BRIANNA MALOTKE is a freelance costume designer and writer based in Illinois. Her most recent publications include a feature of three horror poems on “The Yard: Crime Blog” in December 2020. Looking ahead, in 2022 she will be a Writer in Residence at the Chateau d’Orquevaux in Orquevaux, France. You can find her at https://brimalotke.wixsite.com/malotkewrites