Their static laughter looped
through ribbonean horses,
ghost rein angles where umbilical cords
were trimmed by scissors that
couldn't stomach daughters.
Round and round
souls with no lungs,
playing tag in womb-shaped coffins.
The carousel spins,
and still none are born.
-
Author:
Aman 12 (
Offline) - Published: December 14th, 2025 09:02
- Comment from author about the poem: female infanticide
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
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