Primal Urges

Naked in the rain –
a torrential downpour,
to say the least –
which cleanses me.
I grasp a crystalline
shard of glass
in my palm.
It lacerates my leather skin,
purging the blood
from my wiry veins.
I’m reborn,
reconstructing my life
after my self-destruction.
My persona and identity,
rewritten with my blood as ink.

Society wants my blood
for its aesthetic value.
It epitomizes their self-hatred,
lashed out against themselves,
the role of their victim, a surrogate –
just a piece of scum,
a dispensable hero.
They stand, wide-eyed in awe, ticks!
They would devote a soapbox,
a theatre,
a coliseum,
if their lust was not forbidden…
for social normalcy dictates
the suppression of primal urges.

Alas, I will not bleed
for a collective entity I hate.
My blood is for me!
My sweat,
tears, humors,
they are mine.
They are my love’s.
They are my creativity’s –
they are for art,
music, literature.

I will not bleed for you,
society.