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An untitled poem, authorless.

You are a toy.

You are the coin that is passed between the merchant’s fingers.

You are the blood that is pumped to knit the wound.

You are the ink that is used to write ledgers.

You are the grape that is crushed for wine.

You are the food the moth eats to bat its wings.

You are the mud the rain displaces to form a puddle.

You are the spelt that is harvested.

You are the charcoal burned to smelt silver.

You are the tools they use for their war.

Yours is the blood that is spilt.

Yours are the babes that are hidden.

Yours is the name that is stolen.

Yours is the soul that is claimed.

You are not a partner.

You are not equal.

You are a toy.

And toys are discarded once they’re used up.