Guts

Lay me down in

A bed of roses.

Gift me a robin that

Sings me to sleep -

You are a wolf;

Gut me open,

Plunge your fingers

Into my belly.

You call it dipping 

In honey on a 

Morning - dusk

Is long gone.

Shaky hands stitch up

My stomach, I was

Never a surgeon.

Just a woman.

My blood smothers

My hands.

From your scalpel:

Glass coughs up my

Throat for seven

Years.

And after a decade 

The taste still lingers

Of shards

In the tomb,

And blood not mine.

No sea will grant

The sweet release

Of innocence

Nor freedom pray.

‘This is the skin

You were born with.

Carry it on

Your bones till it

Withers away.’