Blood and milk.
Silk and oil.
Stains beneath these finger nails,
chewing at the corners of my mouth-
deception
I am not really so here
as one might believe:
I'm suspended
illusioned
bejeweled
and it's taken so long to find freedom,
the taste is like copper coin,
been god knows where.
I'm shaking.
I'm sick.
The metallic won't peel from my skin.

I wear war paint:
all colours of brown and of gold.
I wear peach like sheild on my apples
and black for far-seeing
surrounding these eyes.
I paint lashes to keep my eyes open
to keep me from closing or shutting out salt.
I wear bronze like a medal, third best...
I wear war paint
to keep me in step
with the world.

There's a light in my eyes
but I can't remember
who told me.

10/29/2005

Author's Note: This is what is called blood-letting. What I don't want inside of me. The refuse of my mind and of my heart, I guess. This is a purge. This is me and it isn't, I guess.

Posted on 10/29/2005
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