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Bleeding Words

I was, once, literal –
but the words, too sharp,
were always piercing,
gutting out the core of things.
But a flower is no machination;
labels don’t stick to this rock.
Love is obdurate.
Death, well –
a cockroach.
So I cut them out of me.
Carved words to release,
left only absences sharp,
defined.  Bleeding,
stumbling mute through this,
I saw:
     the world dancing
     on my raw, pink flesh,
     feet smeared in blood.
Now you dance there, too,
barefoot, long toes striking sinew,
occasionally drumming
percussive hollows,
the red stains spreading.

24 Mar 07

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Um.  Last stanza seems tacked on? Goes with the subject matter (sort of), but it adds a new character?
 — unknown

remove "were" from line 3,
remove "but" from line 6

rest looks fine...
 — trochee

I love the metaphors in this piece; death being a mundane cockroach. Like the other metaphors, it is far from being cliche. The only things are that the word "machination" doesn't sit right with me, I don't think the last three lines of the fourth stanza need to be indented, and I would like to know the significance of the "you" in the last stanza.
 — BrideInBlack