I hung my bleeding body
on to dry. At war with myself, I saw
a place to lie.  A satin red
flower erected on a tower of

spines. And fell on a pincushion
of needles and pins that made
my head spin. And ripped a hole
in my side. Torn so wide I split

in two and grew spikes in
my pupils from a man with no
scruples. This, from two stars
colliding. I'm sliding on a fast track

back to earth. Still at war with
myself.  Now the spikes that girth me
are my hands and my knees. And there's
no soft place to lie.