SHE BRINGS THE FALL
By Romany Patton
They thought they had me facedown on their stone.
Hands at my shoulders.
Knees in my spine.
They spoke of honour and sacrifice, expecting worship
when they meant ownership.
The blade entered my posture
just beneath my breath.
I did not scream.
Ribs unfurled—
unwilling—
like doors long rusted.
They reached for my lungs to hang them as wings,
not understanding—
I had already been splitting open, growing my own.
Each lie, a crack in the skin.
Each scathing spit, a filament of feather.
Each dismissal, a quiet calcifying.
When they finished, I stood.
Reassembled. Back torn. Blood warm as a rising sun.
The sky widened. I carried myself there,
black shapes stitching the air above me.
A parliament of eyes. A chorus without sound.
Murder recognising my flight.
Fire passed,
Blackened but standing.
The room inside your own spine
that no one can kneel on again.
Still they worship
on their knees
at the stone.
But it no longer
has my shape.