red

I lay on my shaggy floor, collapsed.
My selfish uterus sheds,
and my bloodless heart begs,
while my mind defends
the urge to relapse and call you again.

In this fetal position, I find
that rose tinted thoughts of you plague my mind.
The sticky red between my thighs
reminds me of our unborn kids—
never to be alive.

The blood never scared you;
you wore my red on your lips,
coming up to kiss me
with metallic spit—
after drinking my lifeforce.
A part of me died when you split.

A sharp tool of nature
carves me apart,
taking away all that I know
and leaving me in the dark.
A cycle each month I manage to forget,
though I am left with its remembering marks
in a pool of ruby regret.

Womanhood: a cyclical wound
of ripping myself apart
before healing can ensue.
And with every ounce of blood,
I cannot help but reach for you.

I am engulfed, dripping in red—
a lesion praying for leisure,
for this tortuous cycle to end,
though no man can possibly amend
this infinite wound:
bound open again.