Last night I read her poetry and cried
for years ago a love within her heart had died
and for this I identified
and saw it all differently.
And now it is his heart that bleeds
and yearns for Her song to fill his needs
and she may provide without taking heed
to the turmoil within.
Or is it the turmoil in me
talking as if it has room to speak
but really it is I who need a heart
to heal my crumbling, broken being?
I write it because I’m scared to speak it
and the month I’ve been waiting for has arrived
and while she sings him lullabies
I cut myself and watch my life
bleed out of me
and onto the cold floor
and pools of crimson fill my eyes
and the alchemy of these combine
to create a new element caused by
the bittersweet release.
I’m not alone!
I yell and scream
I have all I need I try to believe
Fuck this same scenery
I can find inspiration
if I allow it to be.