The war I wage is sweet and red.
Warriors appear in fruit baskets, on counters,
In paper totes, ripe.
I wield a knife,
A cutting board for a shield,
A compost bowl
For the casualties.
They are flavor:
Packed in trenches,
Bags of blooming blood
Serving a ruby crown.
And I, hungry for violence,
Peel the skin
Tear it open
Hold the heart in stained victorious hands.
Nora Glass is a high-strung 17-year-old from Atlanta, Georgia. Passionate about the theatrical, poetic, and linguistic, she can be found reading, writing, and making unnecessarily complicated spreadsheets. Her work can be found at noraswriting.weebly.com. Most recently book read: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
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