As a man,
The night speaks harder than day.
As a woman,
I might falter to see the mirror,
For fear of seeing what asks to quicken;
And I am in pain for it all.
I feel tears,
More than I allow them to run.
I breathe pain,
More than I feel it.
I sing the song of sadness and heartache,
Even more than the world can empathize.
I feel disappointment greater than madness,
In my desperation, there is greater longing
For a touch, for a word, for a something,
To my shoulder, shoulder, and shoulder.
I find pain to dampen my distress,
Roses are comforting for their thorns,
Bruises are lovely for their color,
And death is much for the painting
Due to its very stillness.
Love has made herself a woman,
And she says to me that nothing is right
Where we live, or where we scream.
To the clouds, to the moon,
And never the sun.