Tuesday, February 2

we hold hands as we see the world below our feet
and are hands meet
and i don't think
i never think only till later
bruised and forever bleeding
my wounds are internal
you'd think they'd notice
or have i gotten better at pretend?
my body more of a tomb then
the supposed birthing womb
and its my duty to bring and share the life i cant feel
my duty and your expectation of archaic womanhood clash with my unrelenting desire to be free
from your tendency to pierce me with the conclusion i am of no use anymore
i always wondered why you had so many things, but really you don't
those are the dolls that clutter life you no longer give the time of day
but the stuff you collect sticks to you like a magnetic crane in a junkyard you dangle you prize possession
not caring if it falls
for the gifts are replaceable
you'll settle for warm sheets and a bed to be
and it doesn't matter who you hurt