Only Another Moon.

Women,
soft and kind,
are taught to return
blood and horseshit
with love,
love,
love.

As if there is little else
that such a creature can offer
besides love,
life,
love,
food,
nourishment,
acceptance,
and understanding.
The shortcomings
of such animals
as us
are so often
doused in sex,
or the mouth,
or the bleeding
in-between.

I am swollen
and nearly collapsing
in wrath,
as a woman:
an alluring,
gentle,
bleeding in-between
woman,
who understands,
well enough
but refuses

to ever

receive

the short-comings

of men

simply because

they believe

they are

more enraged,

or hungrier mammals

than

I am.

I can bear children,

exquisite and fragile
and bright with life.

I can feed empty bellies
and coax seeds
out of the Earth.

I can hear you,
accept you,
lick and embrace you.
 

And I can also

easily

breathe fire

more boiling

than any beast

your virility could ever

dream up.

Left Wondering.

I awoke this morning
not smelling like myself.
My hair was matted
like a wild mane,
too full with the pilgrimage
and secrets
from the night before.

I am sore
and I ache
for another pinch,
but I am already home
to so many wounds...

I can feel myself
giving too much away,
and one side of me
feels the luxury
of a burden
beginning to lighten,
while the other
grasps earnestly,
terrified,
to bring the pieces of me
back.

Our lust
is like a great catharsis,
a hollow vessel,
waiting,
a clutter of the strange
and livid.
All of these things,
I sort through,
while I'm still
trying to teach myself
your name.