how may I ever not
sanctify the blood of
woman when it is
the purest form of jubilation
it is life
it is death
it is the catharsis of
crackling generations
of
trillions of souls
so how may I not
sanctify what is most
holy...
what is most splendid
in creation
the blood of woman
moon untainted
ethereal and wild
the blood of woman
may rule on
from the Earth's core
like it did
before.

i laugh
at all the poets they made us learn about in school
then go home...
and become one myself

I
to draw blood
and
let me sing
hollow words
of a
hollow body

II
to reek of havoc
and stain with chaos
I wish your hands
-liquid silver,
would melt and
burn off
my nerves
as you
caress my head

III
silently
all in the flutter
of a moth's wings.
picture me
reincarnated
through your touch
musing & murmuring
this

IV
fragile mind
this
restless time

My swollen lip
I bit it when I was freezing.
That one rib throbbing from underneath me
Yours are moving graciously,
Creasing the skin between the bowed up package of 24-
Ribs wrapped in my clothes since it was hot enough to make summer in my room in this almost November.
I sigh.
Naturally we talk about whatever you'd like to hear from me.
Nothing too personal of course but I'm listening.
*** and boys and *** and boys and the ****** of falling in love with feminine energy.
So innocent is the love of woman I bet we're synching.
I stare at your nose as I blabber about a rethorical woman I'd be afraid to eat out in case I won't satisfy her.
You gleam in confidence discoursing me about it.
The words of woman, the touch of enchantress.
I give up on continuing, ending in something about my self hatred instead of *****.
The earth tremors know I ache to be loved and to love it.
I told you too.
It isn't me, but anonimity that's keeping me so neutral but frantically ******.
"you're so interesting..."
Thanks let's talk about clitoral ******* and prostate training, while I cry about not intending.
While I long to be dreamed about and lusted over.
While I remain bold in my silence.
What a skill to be given.
I bit my lip when it was freezing,
At the thought of ******* some sense into me.

°
A shard of a body
That's what I was at 8
I remember knowing I was watched.
Never when I smiled, only when I endured.
Acid words, their silver impact
Midas made gold, so my skin must've shimmered.
A remnant of soul,
Waiting for twilight so I can crawl
Within myself and rest for the night.
From 7 to 9 I used to beg for love,
That's why I have so much pride today.
Infancy meant smothering the floor with my ****** knees and begging,
Pleading like a fly to a swatter, to be saved, to be forgiven.
I used to think to- myself "mercy is so hard to work for".
At 10 I took to nightly silence,
A knock at the door meant a visit and five meant I was the outsider.
Waiting for the neighbours to glance at each other while I was counting roaches, dead on the stairs.
A scrap of mind,
When I still thought god loved me, I used to pray,
To be taken and never given away.
To be given my knees back in exchange for me.
I used to ask to be given mind if death wasn't ready to take so young.
But church was empty and I was never accompanied just held by the hand.
A shard of body, a remnant of soul, a scrap of mind
I'd tell the child we've been dead and we're now gods.
She'd believe me,
She'd believe anything.
I should've killed you, child.
It would've been faster, a respectful execution.
I love you child.
Tonight you may be worth only one tear
But you have cried enough for me.