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.