I have been howling at half moons,
razing myself to flat feelings that you clip with cloven hooves,
my glassy eye turned away, waiting for tides that won't come back,
that saw this shore and turned again.
I have been opening the door
to blood rooms of women with stitched mouths, piled around on their backs,
limbs open and all over the place. Their sores are still seeping
and the stench, it bends me double.
And I have been waiting for you
to give thorn to my softest skin, pin me and break everything
until I cannot find a shape. This dense smear of knowing you
keeps me vague. And I am slow green
mouldering as I am unmade
in your image in the blood rooms and piling the bags and bags
and bags of failed hearts at your door, in this house of collectors,
this castle of claws.
to Adjudicators Report