Bricolage

The pain of being used and discarded
Every drop of nectar wrung from my body
lapped up greedily
like magnetic ambrosia
until nothing but a pile of bones remained.
My abandoned skeleton
has now the most insipid of sweetnesses left to offer

My parents' hair has lost its color, not its curl,
but who were all the crows
that perched at the corners of their eyes
and etched the wrinkles into their faces?
What were the sweets and the genes
and the memories
that make their wounds
unable to heal?

An egalitarian whim:
that I were a person
before this gendered body!
whose purity is assessed by penetration
whose virtue is found in the the one at her side
whose potential is realized when the empty space within
forms another gendered body.

Tortuous torrents of fear flow underneath
For there is no operation for cataracts
of the third eye.
What is written
I no longer know

Their shrinking spines,
the vapid sugar of my veins,
my hollow womb, clotting like a hardened heart,
all fill me with unease
my clouded intuition cannot dispel.