I read your writings
You said “God was a woman,
But she was not mine.”
And when they say; “my God”
I did not know we were speaking
Of property
Of ownership
Are they truly a God
If they belong

Will you not tell me
Of your longing instead
Not of your wishes
For her to open her pearly gates
I know you tasted heaven once
I know you licked golden honey
From the fountain of life

It seems you will always thirst
For the juice, of forbidden fruit

I am not my body
But it is my house
A hundred years from now
When it is a vacant home
Will you rummage through my rubble
Sift through my fallen shingles
I fear to be plundered
As men often do
As sinners often joke
Of renting women’s bodies
Yet, they do not pay the price
I am a haunting house
I am not an open door
Will you not respect my frame
For the soul it once contained
Or is the time after I part with life
Squatters rights

I close my eyes
The devils choir is humming
They will drown out
The swell of the storm
Tune out
The crash of the oceans
Clear through it all
I hear your voice

The natives said, the earth is our mother
And if mine is a chasm, open wide
If she is a barren land
She is a Grand Canyon
My mother wound splits me open
Soil cracking from womb to sternum
If she does not know me
How does she wound me so

I have a heart
Like a child’s skinned knees
You may ground me
But the pavement
Makes me bleed
There is no memory
Behind my glass eyes
They are hollow
Empty, and void

You never should of shown me
Who you are
I saw right through you once
I can never claim blindness again

Save yourself.