I.

 

 

A Tearing

 

 

 

 

Something is tearing at my skin.

The internal takes hold of my thoughts, my passions, and

my skin.

My body labours in confusion not remembering conception.

Are my actions abortive?

Are my words stillborn?

Creation calls, but not in the wind.

I have no mid-wife to help me bring life.

But barriers are breached with the force of this seed.

And if a seed, then may the tearing be beautiful.