It’s that time of the month,

Like an apostrophe

I Contract and omit

Curl up fetal ink blot

Hide out the week

Like an apostrophe

skip this bit

the red riot

falling out of me

Like an apostrophe

I own it,

My Crumbling cookie cut out,

A hole formed from my natural corrosive

I’m told

          You’re moody

I’m told

          You’re dirty

I’m told

          Nothing

And yet just like me

the earth bleeds.

A woman with a touch so gentle,

grinding herbs with care and petals

from the flowers of this morning,

in a dish this mortal’s mortar,

pestle whirling, cures are formed here.

A

fly

keeps

Buzzing

in

my

Ear

and I

Wantittofuckoff

A

Fly

Keeps

Buzzing

In my Ear And I

HIT

Itwithacarvingknife

A

fly

keeps buzzing

in my ear and I

don’t mind.

The lug sits neatly leaking into the cream carpet,

The fly sits aboard,

My hand waves and I smile since

I won’t be hearing any buzzing for a while.

She glowed with the unexpected brilliance of a plum. A rosey-red victorian vessel. Temptingly she dangled, bursting from her skin with shiny juices running down until they hung like a hand in amber. It pointed to me. I feasted. You were an undeniable pleasure. A drug that made me forget and set me in woozy-headed wonder. Like people possessed, we had shrieked and danced till our blood merged and you became my sister. Yet still, a hardness was lodged within you. One night I hung out the window watching smoke curl around the moon. On this night manic laughter rumbled in your chest. I bit. Along the street below me you ran with my life in your arms, pieces spilled over and landed on the puddled tarmac. Teeth met stone and I met you. A lot of fruit was lost that year. It spoiled fast with the Highland chill and the early coming of Autumn.

Rope tight

Pyre high

Soon my ashes

Free to fly

The men will cheer

The women fear

Who will be next

You speak

You die