deepundergroundpoetry.com
Iron wine
I am my own worst critic, and my poor body is the only one who knows it.
I pick at her until she bleeds, until she cries out no more, and begs for mercy.
Her bones are made out of rusted iron and aged ash, as if she will crumble any minute.
Her skin is made of the weakest cloth, and it will turn bright pink at a moments notice.
She begs for her solitude, as if she thinks that she is free; that I will not bend and break without her beside me.
I pinch at my legs until they bleed, the very objects that lift me up the most.
She cries so hard sometimes that our lungs beg for breaks, to catch their breath.
I want to let her go so badly and then I see myself; my true self.
She is broken beyond repair, and she is held together by nothing but tape and glue.
She doesn't argue with me anymore though, because it is her that only knows the truth
That she would whither away without me, that she too would feel the hollowness.
Our love for each other has no bounds, and I would do anything for the taste of her,
Her and her Iron wine; My body and I are tethered at the pelvis, each to their own.
She is her own worst critic and I am the only one who knows her truth.
Our bodies lie in wait, like old iron aged anchors inside the belly of the sea,
Waiting to belong to someone else, Waiting to be set free.
We are our own worst critics, and we are the only ones who know our truths.
That we are as empty and hollow as the sea, doomed to be sunken forever.
I pick at her until she bleeds, until she cries out no more, and begs for mercy.
Her bones are made out of rusted iron and aged ash, as if she will crumble any minute.
Her skin is made of the weakest cloth, and it will turn bright pink at a moments notice.
She begs for her solitude, as if she thinks that she is free; that I will not bend and break without her beside me.
I pinch at my legs until they bleed, the very objects that lift me up the most.
She cries so hard sometimes that our lungs beg for breaks, to catch their breath.
I want to let her go so badly and then I see myself; my true self.
She is broken beyond repair, and she is held together by nothing but tape and glue.
She doesn't argue with me anymore though, because it is her that only knows the truth
That she would whither away without me, that she too would feel the hollowness.
Our love for each other has no bounds, and I would do anything for the taste of her,
Her and her Iron wine; My body and I are tethered at the pelvis, each to their own.
She is her own worst critic and I am the only one who knows her truth.
Our bodies lie in wait, like old iron aged anchors inside the belly of the sea,
Waiting to belong to someone else, Waiting to be set free.
We are our own worst critics, and we are the only ones who know our truths.
That we are as empty and hollow as the sea, doomed to be sunken forever.
Published 26th Feb 2021
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