We do it to ourselves. With horse and hound
not knowing quite what it might be we chase
we come astounded to a sacred place
where she stands, naked. It is pain we’ve found.

A gesture and our mind and skin are torn
to tatters. It’s that moment in a dream
when bliss turns sour, soft words become a scream
torn by our own teeth, gored by our own horn

and she who sets them on? It is not her
but our own lust. We turn this into rhyme
from cries of love and death. Yes, every time
and knowing what we’ll suffer won’t deter.

This verse bleeds ink from every bite and tear.
The joy that comes from love’s end in despair.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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