I bleed in many colours,
red, orange, poison, tranquility,
Where must one go to to calm those who are stung?
Which leaf must I pick that will release the toxins?
I have grown thick skin over what was once so raw,
exposed, yellow and brown,
My body is failing me again,
and I am its Servant,
diseased, with the hope that herbs will save me,
Womb flailing,
Me, smiling with all front teeth,
Unsettled and in need of love,
Unsettled, yet peaceful,
unsettled and fighting,
it seems from the outside that I am well collected
Put in place,
structured, with all the right guidelines,
but how do I tell them, that I am fighting against my own flesh,
my rigid blood, black and blotted in all the wrong places,
with or without the womb singing, I am a bloody flood
I don’t expect people to know my pain,
Just the minimal of an ear to hear the screams of a winded phoenix
but what can these words do,
if they simply do not understand,
One day, when I have fled forest,
and served my time is this collosal tragedy,
of both living in harmony whilst grieving a loss that has no ending
maybe the trajectory will shift,
and all will regain balance