still here, still bleeding

What her grandmother couldn't name, she came to set free.

i have swallowed 

so much silence 

i can feel it 

calcified 

somewhere between my sternum 

and my throat 

a stone i grew myself 

because the world kept putting things in my mouth that weren’t mine to carry 

and i 

kept swallowing. 

— 

i know what it is to shrink 

to make myself apartment-sized 

in a body built cathedral 

to laugh at the joke. 

to laugh at the joke. 

to laugh at the joke. 

until my face forgot what it felt like 

to mean it 

i know what it is 

to stand in a room 

and calculate – 

how loud is too loud 

how much is too much 

how angry can i be 

before i become the problem

that is what i call girl math 

i have done it my entire life – and it just doesn’t add up 

— 

my grandmother didn’t have words for what was done to her. 

she just had a body 

that flinched. 

she just had hands 

that couldn’t stop working. 

she just had a mouth 

that said ‘fine, fine, i’m fine’ 

while something underneath her ribs beat itself bloody against the bars. 

i felt it. 

it came down through her blood. that caged thing. 

that almost-wild thing. 

and i am here, 

in this body, 

to tell you 

i set it free 

corrinke

corrinke is a poet, story doula, and olympic weightlifter who believes gutwrenching doesn't have to be heavy. she writes about bodies, bloodlines, and the long work of returning to yourself — and occasionally lifts very large things as proof that the body remembers what the mind forgot. based in ericeira, portugal, where the atlantic is rude and she fits right in.

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All the Places I Didn’t Stay