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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...