❦Clay Coloured❦

Bleak and bland, a bothersome blight.


Bleeding-heart dove


Bleeding out the rest of my days,
a steady drip-drop into the ocean,
a cup filled to the brim but never overflowing.
All reduced to a million rainfalls, fundamentally interchangeable
yet so clearly variating in tone and pace.
All bleeding out the same way, slowly hollowed out.
When the realisation lodges itself like an arrow
(suddenly, but firmly),
the body crumples.

Perched among high branches,
bleeding down onto you.
I’m attempting a kind gesture, you see -
let it be known:
you are loved.
There’s a quiet wish to displace what’s inside,
to reorganise and reposition, uproot.
I want to tie a string around it and tug it out of me,
I want to give it to you.
(Not for your sake, nor for mine.)
A futile attempt to not be gone.

Like a river stone or fecalith,
tall pine or crested wave -
I stay the same even when I change
(just me and my remains).
No thought, no love, no intention,
a buried treasure among billions.
There’s no economy to death,
just flesh and water and
a bustling necrobiome, unconcerned with life lived,
only caring for life lost.
All that I have done?
Worth less than a breath.
And all that I have taken?
I am willing to exchange.