Conduits of Blood
A self that is itself
Within itself.
My pen is my sword
At the mouth of your pyre
With which you will be slain,
By your own hand.
Or was it me that took the hilt?
Not out of anger or frustration
But out of sadness, maybe confusion.
You vex me and you are beautiful.
Your fire which is burning
Always just behind
Lights your hair a glowing orange
And leaves me tired, breathless,
And beside myself, within
Myself, burning veins that
Are itself.