THERE’S IRON IN HER BLOOD
Witchery she rests.
Through her, centuries of uncompromising bodies
unwieldy, abrupt, unapologetic. Owners with no owner rights
tears of blazing sunshine
sheathing the polluted earth around her, hiding the footsteps that
entered her choking with each penetrating step
She is visited for her hot, wet, depths of sweet pleasure,
Her vacuous dark, by
Antiheros compelled to measure her labyrinths of
To feel the
veins pumping life to the heather, the ivies and the birch
unable to turn their gaze away.
She wails, the exodus of cardinal reds burst open as she rips. Precious
It cannot go to waste. This labour of rape.
I taste my blood, caked on my skin, the draught
Out of place
It tastes hot, wet, vacuous like the brain he owned.
My tears not yellow, but cardinal red
No shame. I am the sheath and the ore.