When I Opened My Eyes This Morning

When I opened my eyes this morning

(Most people wouldn’t call it morning)

There was a bullet in me.

So I didn’t sit up, or turn over.

I lay with my eyes open and the day

Breathed around me,

Inhaling light, exhaling shadows.

I bled beautifully, needlessly, profusely.

There was no pain. There was no wound.

I did not know where the bullet had lodged itself.

It may have been my rib-cage,

My thigh, my wrist, my brain.

They shouted, “That is art!” and clamoured for a better view.

But it wasn’t.

There was no pain. There was no wound.

Of Wrongs and Rights

She felt as though her ribs had shattered
Into a million shark-teeth
That were slowly sinking
Into her ravaged heart
That someone had squeezed
Into a pulp, a bloody, messy pulp
That could be rotting away
Into a stinking bitterness
That smelled pungent, boring
Into her flaring nostrils
That made her eyes pour
Into a tear-stained pillow
That lay beneath her throbbing head.

They said what she felt was wrong

Simply because,
She didn't have the right. 

Blood-shot

Pick that almost healed scab.

Ask not what caused it.

You know you want it to bleed once more.

A pinprick of scarlet swelling into a pool.

And then running  red furrows down your skin.

Warm and sticky and icky.

Watch the patterns it makes.

Oozing.

Let it spill and drip and slip.

Count the minutes until it stops.

By itself.

You'll do it again.

Because you can't cry.