Trying

I am a wounded thing, bathed in crimson.

Shadows of the day, tell me

should I pray the sunlight hits me?

For God only knows a wound that would fester

faster than that of horror, a shower

of torrid lonliness; an endlessness

of wanting and searching, hating and loving.

I catch you in a net and then you are gone

a song prolonged by blackened rage.

I turn a page, year in and out the days

are years and the years are merely breaths

that linger in the back of my head.

I blister in a void of something silent

in search of feelings vibrant, but the only word to rouse me is

More.

Yearning and bleating, failing and sealing

the wisps of loveliness that bind the earth in a faltering whisper

into my chest: through blood and bone and lips.

I wish that dark would seize me, throttle and teach me

how to be shadow made woman, to be shadow made man.

That when the void had ate me, a devil to sate me

I could lay down all those little whispers that tell me

I love, I love, I love but I am.