Queen of Roaches

Is it my fault? That I am more

my father than mother, more salt

than sugar. Who left

the water running

that pulled her? Down the drain

into a green sewer where the roaches

made her queen at only nineteen of rotten cores

and the breathing dead. She

spent every morning washing her face with pee

that smelled like garlic bread from a distance. In the afternoon

she sang into the pothole, while at night she fingered

her soul, slowly. Crying three times,

not four because four would just confirm

that she was only another whore, for

hope.

Previously published online with Beyond the Commons Magazine

Sara Sturek is a sophomore at the University of Southern California where she is double majoring in Creative Writing and Communications. She is a recovering New Yorker currently residing in Los Angeles. Her creative work has been recognized in Luna Collective Magazine, Beyond the Commons Magazine, The Collective Art Magazine and Trash Mag. Having been raised by three single women, Sara’s poetry mostly focuses on the female body and its relation to identity, its empowerment, its obsession with itself, and its disgust.

You can follow Sara on Instagram here.