The blood did start to flow the day I left you
Like a wound reopened,
Peach split in half,
Core removed,
Gored on your behalf.
I couldn't let you touch me then,
No matter what I wanted;
Your lips tasted of words unspoken,
Yet fear left my love daunted.
And when the blood ran dry
It never came back,
Though I did keep track,
Of its absence over the summer long.
What am I to do?
The poems I've written lately are few
I'm lost without my muse.
And my virgin's blood is left
Recorded on your sheets,
It's now yours to keep
For my womb is fast asleep.
No tragic ballads,
Yearning sonnets,
Or lyrical odes
Can be born.
I'm as dry as baked earth
And my insides are all torn.
Yet I wonder if I ran away
And sailed across the sea
To tumble in your arms
As we were wont to be,
Would fertility reblossom
And seep out from our core
Or sprout out from our reed-like throats
And let our music pour
In a language of song
Only we could comprehend
As we try to end
This self-destructive trend?
For our dreams cannot take seed
Without the light they need,
And like my pen run dry of ink
Without you I can't bleed.
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