To Outgrow A Wound
To think this body was the source of some sort of magic;
an elixir that fingers could dip into greedily when the night
falls heavily upon bodies moving like shadows
and these hands could hold a heart
to the flame, feeling the thing beat away
helplessly in love even as it is crushed against stone.
To think this lowly thing could love me, and I could love it!
O, bleed away for me, beat against the night,
bleed for my love as if it is all a heart could do.
For I am half a human, half a shadow
living on remembrance, stuck in perpetual night.
To think I was a wound all of my life
a pulsating gash, begging to be whole again,
begging for something I could not name
and never getting enough.
To think I could love another,
hold another shivering soul with these bloodied hands,
these ravenous fingers, this hungry aching mouth.