Murder

I know it when the chill climbs

up my spine from within deep;

the murder she wrote begins

to play, its ache unfurling in

tangents of cruel inevitability.

Convulsions; resigned tremors

of solitude as my fingers creep

inside the crevice of my being,

a string of crimson stuck as i

pull them out; a reminder of

fertility coughed out by my walls.

I hardly mind this alienation

from my own; the massacre

accumulating in clots in my pants.

Hardly blink as drops lazy down

my thighs. They are mine.

As long as I’m blind to the murder

that my womb wrote in my pants.