Friday, April 1, 2011
The first time she would not sleep with me,
I thought, back then,
That it was just the tag on my dress--
Then I thought,
I am cracking, alive, down the center.
The second time she would not sleep with me,
There was blood.
The sheets had to be burned,
And the flames rose crimson--
The smoke a choking jet.
It doesn't matter.
I can no longer lie down--
My back has birthed devil-black wings,
Bigger than I am.
If I wrap them around myself,
I can close my eyes for a blessed moment;
Though when I unfold them again,
They are more impressive yet--
And I am less human.
The third time she would not sleep with me,
I no longer cared.
I laughed remembering how such a small thing could have appeased me--
Now, I require everything,
And when I sigh at the idea of appetite unleashed,
photo: Amy Lee