The women in my family have a sickness——
We crave the sensation of the jagged knife
against our runaway flesh.
Love is the knife.
I dig my blade across that sweet spot
near my collarbone, where I
store my spirit’s birdsong in fatty tissue.
My lark’s rhythmic chirping
urges me to dive deep into the arms of Malice
and think his the embrace of Eros——
Thanks to this folly,
I catapult myself further into the heavy curtain
of regret and the cold coffin of heartache.
(And still my knife’s edge never dulls.)
Like my great grandmother before me,
I am one afflicted—-
I have gargled poison from shiftless men,
and shakily laughed as I warped their goodbyes
into treasured love songs.
Like my grandmother before me,
I have sliced myself wide open
until someone somewhere looks at me.
But unlike the thirsty eyes of my mother,
I alone have seen the truth behind this
united fever dream——-
Love may have been the knife,
but Hope has always been the key.
An heirloom passed down through generations
of wounded daughters.
It serves as my catalyst towards destruction
because I keep on trying to unlock
the wrong doors with it.
There is no cure for this either.
So I (true to my legacy)
stab myself over and over again
and think myself lucky to have felt
anything at all——even pain.
The women in my family have a sickness,
you see and I am no different——
I crave and crave and crave
and, again, my knife never dulls,
nor does my penchant for shame.