Faded Lines
I am the fallen leaf in autumn.
The orange and yellow one.
The one whose edges fade to brown as
my red stem cascades downward to graze your pant leg
while your fingertips,
light and gentle,
sweep the faded lines of my edges.
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Emergence
My finger stuck to a cold railing.
A piece of thick skin ripped off.
I licked my wound once and walked away.
I found scattered feathers in the woods.
The wing of a small bird lay limp.
I asked you if you wanted some coffee.
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Open
I am open.
My womb bleeds blue fertile blood not yet red and dead.
It shudders and cries for release.
I stroke it sideways and it screams
with an angry force that floods my insides with fluid.
I am open.
My guts hang outside my belly,
bloated and limp in my hands.
I look at the long pathways in numbness and bewilderment,
wondering what to do with them.
I am open.
My stomach shakes in involuntary regurgitation.
perpetually spitting up poison
black and sticky,
cool and wet.
It burns a hole,
freezing this moment.
I fill my abdomen with air
and cradle it in my hands
like I would a newborn child.
I am open.
I stroke my bloody heart
with a calloused hand
the roughness shoots dullness through my chest
and stops my breath.
My heart slows its beating
to an irregular skip.
A wailing fills my bosom as I massage the muscle.
I am open.
You touch my womb, guts, stomach, and heart.
I think I should have protected myself
from the sting of the salt in your hands
but instead I let you caress my nerve endings
and relax into a touch I think will kill me.
And as my heart beats closer to stillness
I know I am safe
here
with you.
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Tattered Wings
Last year I rocked you
to the sound of Celtic flute music
and fed you nectar from an eternal well
of the Goddess's bliss
You surrendered to
the infinite embrace
of my faery wings
but your limbic brain
remembered wounds n'er forgotten
and ripped you from me.
Now I wrap my tattered wings
'round myself
and hum that song
on frenzied nights,
aged young to heal old pain.
The Livingroom of My Soul
I see you in the livingroom of my soul
sorting through my baggage
like one fumbles through old papers,
keep this,
throw away that.
You are focused and intent on your chore.
The clock ticks by
the windows reflect darkness unto itself
and I fidget as I anxiously watch
from afar to see if
the wastebasket will fill up faster
than your keepsake box.
Your eyes beam a red flicker at me
from across the room
as you find an old crumpled paper,
tattered and worn at the edges,
reminding you of a past
whose door continually creeps open.
How can I walk away in peace
When I watch you throw the keepsake box into the garbage
and set it all on fire with your blood?
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