|Image from Tribute/Homenaje|
In the aftermath, I breathed
And it must have gotten in.
Your weapons were only resting.
But not destroyed.
Not rusted and bent.
I should have scuttled them.
I should have blown them to bits.
But I inhaled instead,
All the hate in like hot bullets.
Battle weary and weak,
You dress my wounds in my white flag,
Knowing all your little deaths
Are multiplying inside me.
And I know it too, but I’m powerless
Against every internal puncture.
And then you can wash your hands.
You can cease fire.
You can be a saint.
Tiny cuts abrasive in the airways,
Fill my lungs with fluid.
I’d cough out the death in
Wet red that would drip on your fingers
So people could see that your hands
Weren’t really so clean.
I’d cough it out
But my diaphragm only pulls the heavy death breath
Deeper into my belly.
If you could just reach your hand into my chest,
I’d have you harvest the heart from my body
And I could die then.
With all the blood,
All the blood
On your hands.
Inspired by and posted at Three Word Wednesday. The words were battle, fluid, and harvest. I have also included a very subpar reading.