I need to wake—
not from sleep,
but from apathy,
from confabulation,
from incongruity.
My blood moves like quicksand
through veins of ice;
I am rooted to the spot—
not alive, not dead,
somewhere worse.
My body is a cathedral of sighs,
not ecstasy but demise.
My face looks too young
for the age I carry.
I am centurion, I am lapping space.
I stare at the spider on the ceiling—
eight jewelled eyes peering.
It drops; I throw
a shoe, not fast enough.
Its legs sketch sigils in the dark—
webbed prophecies I forgot to read.
I am a glitch in my own perception,
a ghost in my own skin.
Even the mirror shrugs.
So I wear mascara made of wasps,
each lash a stinger,
each blink a threat.
A woman becomes weapon
when ignored too long.
Gabrielle Marie Munslow
Gabrielle Munslow is a UK-based poet and nurse practitioner whose work explores survival, ecological grief, and the intersections between human life and the natural world. Her poetry has appeared in Neon Origami, Bristol Noir, and The Ekphrastic Review. She is currently developing several themed collections, including What I Made from the Ruins and Phoenix-Souled, while actively submitting work to international journals and prizes. Drawing on both her clinical practice and lived experience, Gabrielle writes with a focus on resilience, myth, and the enduring bond between humanity and the natural world.