Morir de Fam

Bitter herbs harvested from bitter earth
By careful, slender-fingered hands
I am Ophelia
And you are the willow
Grown aslant the brook
Where no one saw
If I fell or if I jumped in

Learning how to speak in damage
But the language of damage is seldom the same
Getting used to crying
Without making any sound
And never feeling better or sated

The fault lines in our bones
The tremors that shake our arteries
Such venomous refrains

Your silences threaten to consume me
Your emptiness threatens to consume me
The sirens in your blood sing to me
Louder than the voices in my own

The voices in my blood...

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