Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash
I am one of those witches,
full of resentments,
that mumble darkly
in the cradle of night
Love me, love me, love me!
Desperate women are dangerous
they carry hell within them.
They are, themselves, a kind of hell.
Wild as fire and rolled at the edges
they move as cold breath,
warm, white, and weightless
into the wounded arms of fate.
None despair so much in love
as those who desire it.
The oceans of loss
I alone have wept
could drown the stars.
I subject myself to death daily,
to the tortures of the unkempt mind.
I have terrible thoughts, thoughts
which gain weight and density through repetition,
thoughts which suck the marrow out of everything.
This is how a man becomes a black hole.