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Lying, exposed,
I've made myself
A sacrificial lamb
On the altar of
The unmade bed.
Time and again
I offer myself
To a merciless, wrathful
God, a wolf, a serpent
A blasphemous act
Against my unclaimed heart.
These are no Gods
Towering over me,
Only vultures picking me
To scraps.
©Isobel G. 08.07.2024
Isobel G Apr 2022
I see two paths,
two lives for myself -
with him I am cast into
an ocean of untamed feeling,
lost to reason,
and floating off into an unseeable future.
With the other, I am held fast,
held close by his love
and burrowed deep into the earth;
an old tree that twists faithfully
growing strong and aging gently
across the planes of a lifetime.
How am I to love -
who am I to be, to choose,
to sink into.
I feel the pull of his tumultuous waves
and the roots that simultaneously
bind me to the earthly warmth
of another kind of man.
©Isobel G.     20.03.2022
Isobel G Apr 2022
I lay my hands over the rot
concealed within my belly
and imagine instead
I am ripe with a husband's love,
feeling for the beating warmth
of a life beginning inside
my desolate womb.
I await constantly
the trial of my womanly worth;
this man may be my judge.

©Isobel G.     15.02.2022
Isobel G Jan 2021
The way your acoustic fingers
drum over my skin;
I'm slick with your rhythm.
My heart beats a steady chord
in harmony with your sway,
our hips like reeds moving
swiftly with the wind
to the penultimate crescendo.
©Isobel G.     30.01.2021
Isobel G Nov 2020
It's so easy to romanticize,
slipping on that cloak
of self-loathing;
Reminiscing on those failed dalliance days.
You make me think of what might be
If I could have been someone else,
making me lonely for a rewind
back to before my trajectory slid.

I'm just one of those
tortured people
who leaves their mind on
like a light.
©Isobel G.        Written 23.06.2019
Isobel G Nov 2020
How many people have I known;
taking them into me,
speaking that universal, ancient language
of intimate bodies.
All the beds I've slept in,
all the hands that have felt me move
as I dance the age old dance.
©Isobel G.       Written 04.02.2020
Isobel G May 2019
There's no fire to be started
with paper matches,
but the real thing
sets the whole house alight.
It all goes up in smoke;
burning up your books
and shattering your windows,
so that your safe space
is no more.
©Nicola-Isobel H.      01.05.2019
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