the lovedrunk cowgirl

the sound of her name is a battle cry-

it hangs 

from her mothers mouth.

it’s branded on her father’s tongue-

he bites his, 

I bite mine as I sharpen my knives.

I wipe my blood off the counter she stained.

my baby’s gone and my voice is lost.

all that’s left of her hides 

in a heart shaped box.

in my head plays a broken record

of a word I’ll no longer say-

the one they chose from a seventies song,

the one cutting through my lips and veins.