Her the Self

I wonder who is true

If I can feel her pull inside

How do you disbelieve her

When she has pulsed through me

But can I find the mystery of what has made her move 

through the little tube 

that I will never see

And could I build a muscle 

That would squeeze her into rhythm 

to our favorite song

Where would I even begin 

to find all of our pieces

She keeps me


Does the blood lie? 

She keeps me breathing and thinking and tingling

The rushes and brushes with death

And I’m still alive.

Isn’t that worth something.

Red goddess within

In my bathroom mirror image

Just on my inside

Her face I imagine

Is mine

I can feel her fingers, her warmth 

Always holding, sliding and stroking

Hiding, under, my secrets, my skin

Is she good. Is she hungry. Is she evil. Do I care.

She is mine. I am hers. 

But it’s hard when we fight

When she itches

When I’m sleeping

When she whispers

When I’m reading

I must ask the others. 

Does the blood lie?

Dead said yes, and some say no

So I ask her 

But she won’t answer. I don’t think she can


That one.

Because that’s not her beauty

No reason for the season

No quote of the day.

And how can I disbelieve, anyway

the her that is me

So, of course she won’t answer

Our self-preservation

For someone I can’t just replace

Transfusion of soul and oxygenated cells

For someone I can’t live without

Empty bones and withered veins

For someone who’s bound to the underneath

Rotted remarkable

Spectacular decay

She knows. She is.

I know. I am.

We all know. The blood can’t lie.

At least she keeps me asking 

Who am I?