Ice blades my very skin,
As if winter froze my flesh,
Soldiers buried deep in my joints
Come and open up my hands,
Like a rose,
Each with its own layers,
Each bud, blood covered,
Hoods hiding ecstasy,
Long arms to mask the longing,
The length of desire in fighting,
In pink,
My hands leak ink,
Ink onto paper,
My tears become books,
The words a song,
The eyelid a speaker,
A witness,
I watch how I bleach into others,
Melt away into others skin,
Mark peoples eyes, as they gaze into mine,
chests seared in memories,
I want to not have this,
This anchor of a stomach,
Or is it through my Womb,
Lodged deep inside of me,
Carrying me into the tomb of the earth,
Yet I pittar patter over ground that is mine,
Banana and coconut trees,
Baskets full of lady fingers resting on my hips,
barefoot, deep in rich mud earth,
Body glowing like volcanoes,
Like that of honey,
The sun enriches my tongue, my bones,
More transcendent, more free,
There is more dance in this vehicle,
In this weight,
It is tiresome,
But there is always more laughter within my skin,
Always more wood in the stove burning,
This honey pot of a Womb will never die down,
My gold and green skin,
My flaming raspberry rich cherry,
My yellow flaired persona,
The blackest of flying Hair,
Brown eyes you could drown in,
In darkness you may have found me,
But I bring light to even death,