Feed her life

The blood-moon-month comes, rising full
above the trees.
Each night, in the shadow, I wait
to see her, sleep and dream
of her in a white dress,
before she leapt
off that ledge into teeth-green wealds.
Somehow, I always found the strength
to catch,
to hold her weeping eyes
before they shed into blood-emerald pools.

She watches me now as a wolf heart
In a place I’ll never reach
wild, behind gates of trees and shadows –
tall shadows like dark curtains all hung together.
How does she see now – through
those sheathed eyes looking out?
She doesn’t speak, only howls.
But inside I see her hope peeling into winter walls
brown dead green floral.
Her young garden ripped and ravaged
by what she learned was home.
And I can’t touch her.

Your blows turned her eyes wild,
rapid pulses, deep breaths of survival.
Knuckle cracks against bone –
The bruises rose in a ridgeback down her spine.
Her once gentle hands reeked of instinct
and your skin.
I held her empty body
after it ripped like a paper doll in your violent tides.
I held her as innocent as a pale pink shell.

I tell you. Sit
and I’ll show you
the heart of a beautiful woman run
dark by your hands.
She comes from the trees at night panting, scratched, starved.

I chain you up by the window,
bleed the blood-milk from your veins
carve her flesh from your flesh
of the body you stole.
It’s the blood-moon-month, you see
and her howls split light through the dark slits of trees.
There’s still a light. I can see.
Can you see what you create?
I create, too –
I’ll feed her life back out of you.

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