Who amongst you has never tasted the blood in their stool?

I called for salvation, but I came back
from this hell a living fool.

My only friend is the black cat of Osirus,

He stares into my soul and licks my deep hard wounds
while daring to drift off lazy and with hair, into

the warmth of a window facing the sun at noon.

Tasting the blood in my mouth rising

like the stool passing through my inner turmoil,

I loved this woman

and would have raped her,

I mean not have raped her.

No, never have raped her.

Because she was a gift in a world of

razorblades and painful memories,

and I loved her, she could have let me pass easily

into her arms and her caring

and salvaged me and cured me and cleansed me

yet she acts cold now, as if ice itself

were the breasts that I wished to suckle.

This cat and I are alone

and the woman I loved has scarred me to the bone.

I told her that the rape comment was a slip of the tongue.

My body is burning inside from the pain.

I’m afraid nothing comes out of me pure anymore,

always trickling with the blood of my body’s rejected.

Please make me grow hard again.

My fellow Sister of the gates of despair.