She, my cutter,
my body, her cutting,
with tongue and finger nail,
any handy human implement,
she sculpts me to
her eye's configuring delight

she, grabs my wrist,
and my face
by her hands embraced,
unblemished once
now becomes scarred tissued,
no guise, no lies, no bearded mask,
no disguise -
all forsaken
hidden hardened skin,
speckled red/white translucent,
she kisses with adoration her
heart designed
objet d'art

no better blade than she,
with every cut,
transformed, she becomes
my devotee,
I, her escapee,
I am her, she is me,
inseparable, my every command,
she obeys

for our love cuts both ways

she was in pain
and when she was alone
the tears came out as rain
but she hid it so well that no one will ever know
how heavy it really was

she is tired.
she is tired of the Sun always shining
on the perfect figures of the forgotten ancient Gods
and their pagan daughters,
drowning in gold and in sparkling lava rivers.
she is tired
when everyone walks in the right direction
just to escape from the cold breeze of a pouring rain,
to arrive in their comfortable homes just to stay hours
and hours in a hot bathtub
"it's been a rough day",
tamed by the running water,
but afraid by the ever flowing
and alive rain.
she is tired of the perfect muses,
the ivory shapes of the perfect cover bodies nowadays,
who sacrifice their souls to the
hungry society,
who buys and sells them to the
even hungrier public,
being devoured alive and becoming a dark,
fearful and overly docile
"soul".
she is tired of the
"you should take care more of yourself"
"you should act your age"
"you should do something with that pretty face of yours"
and she just feels like running,
but not running to someone,
but dancing
with the wind as her partner,
because no one can understand her power
and her shapshifting personality like him,
so she grooves unlike other people,
and she is not moved by them,
but they shudder and they are moved
by her dance.
she is tired
of people fearing the Unknown
and afraid to ask,
be curious,
and wild,
so she invites the Unknown
each night
to spend some time with her
and to watch the stars
and he teaches her about the fire they are made from
the celesital fire that exists within
each and every one of us
but it is put out
by every bitter,
as heavy as the ocean
tear, which drips from
the darkest and most hidden corners from our
beating, but oh, so wounded hearts.
she is tired by the gruesome horrors
that make some lives
just existential,
creating scared puppets,
with strings as painful as iron chains
hanging from their backs.
so she releases from them
with every new step that she takes.
she is tired of everyone comparing her
to a soft flower,
pink and naive,
not being allowed to fully bloom
or to grow her own thorns.
she is tired of everyone who
longs so much to fly,
that they forget how to walk,
barefoot on the wet grass,
among misty forests at dawn,
feeling the Father Earth beneath our feet.
yes, she is tired.
but this means that in this sleepy,
poisoned world,
she is awake.