SHRAPNEL

Tonight 
i bound my breasts with words so tightly knitted
that i could scarcely breathe
through the rusted yarn
​made of fraying thoughts
hopes

tonight
i wish i could taste the final breath on a warriors lips
kiss her bleeding mouth
Anoint myself in her tears
and have her story
melt across my palette like 
sweet butter

Is there a god who carries wounded souls in an empty flask?
do they, like the living,
grow weary of the clutter and the stench
and wish instead for a plastic shield 
made of ancient graves
and tar-colored blood?

​are they also frightened of freedom?

what happens when all hope is swept away on salty breezes
or the dust
or a moth’s wings?
who are we when the weak can no longer sing?