The Theft of Spring

i.
I want them gored, pared
from my flesh
as I say goodbye to juvenilia.
There is no cause for keeping their
letters
nor record of their words
not even for mockery's sake.
I want them gone.
I want their stains
fingers
memories
burned to ash and swept away into treacherous water.
To have one is to be one, it seems
And they never know how to handle it
Nor me,
the little anomaly
who would refuse to suck them off
even if that's what's expected,
 these days.
my solemn feminine duty eschewed, and
 fuck you, too
 my love.

ii.
Four clicks
A bare movement of the thumb
And I am rid of a digital record
that for three months
I very nearly became
 clothed in a vicious red
 a womb with legs
 a woman under your God
like in June's tale.

iii.
They say that when the red blow flows
it is the womb, weeping
inconsolable
for the lack of blossoming life.
  Not mine -
She is sobbing, yes
But with relief.
She has collapsed in a waterfall of tears,
 bathing herself
Bleeding herself clean, untouched once more
She roils, screams, twists
Immerses herself in bonetwist pain
And I welcome it like a mother's touch.

iv.
I killed a man.
Quickly, sharply
 like the fast thrust of a dirk.
Silent.
My words became frozen blades.
Needles, glittering pinprick pain at their tips,
 their eyes seeing all.
I made him scream
  (but not in the way he made me scream;
  and not in the way he'd like me to.)
Over and over again, I struck
Filling my emptiness,
 an insatiable viperess:
 swift, soundless, ice-blooded.
I deal out this chill in a fair exchange
 for the fire he doused me with:
For shame, burning bright on that first morning of winter
Immolating me where I lay in my own bed,
whispering to myself that I was
safe
  (this place is inviolate
  intoccabile
  but it's going up in flames!)
For the scalding heat of the bathwater
My trembling fingers clutching
 at the tub
Porcelain white, flawless, faultless
  -- not like me.
Hoping the water will blister my skin
 soiled as it is
 lift it from my bones and dissolve to nothingness.
For that indecent conflagration,
 I gift you with this, your own personal
 wintering.
You, who stole Persephone, and much more than that besides.

v.
o sweet faerie ambassadrix
burning in front of my eyes like a firework caught still
  you never told me this would be so hard.

 

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