you act like
you never get tired of the blood
and the fire that comes after.
all you can see
is the bright colors and
flickering light,
proofs of action and emotion.
is this what it takes, to feel?
you act like
you can't even see what gets destroyed,
the carcass that was love
is something less than dead.

invisible bruises,
the body letting loose under the skin
to try to remind you that
i still exist,
and i don't need your fire to feel.
there is enough stimulation
in memories,
it is enough to remember
what the burning looked like last time.

it is easy to say
that it is hard to be a woman;
it is harder still to look at that mountain
of cultural shame and societal rules,
to see man perched on top,
and still be able to offer you my heart.
that is a woman's real strength,
and the source of her real shame:
she can offer up
the same parts of her soul,
time after time,
and let you make a mess of her,
all the while believing
you are capable of loving her.