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.

6 thoughts on “Black Hole

  1. Old adage, better out than in. Yes, descriptive, no doubt. Painfully well written. I understand, I take no offense, but who are we talking to. Some heart somewhere might be yearning for encouragement. How do we make that possible.

    1. I am a heart yearning for encouragement, for some positive sign from the universe. I am also desperate and some days bitter. It is an autobiographical poem so a lot of it is for the sake of catharsis and self-analysis. Receiving love may well be harder than giving love, we are so quick to shut love out and close up our hearts, so quick to judge ourselves and others. I think we have to keep trying to open up.

      1. Yes. And I wonder if it’s us the universe wants to use as that voice encouraging. For myself, that’s what I wonder anyway. Be what you want to receive, I say to me. More lonely otherwise.

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