The Phoenix and her Blue Angel

The cold shards of cutting knives

lacerate her milk-tooth flesh.

A molten sun blisters the beauty

from her demon-twisted face,

but no amount of pain

can heal cramp-hollowed fear.

Depression rubs deep

in self-salted scars

with the darkness of

those forced penetrations

where a thousand rigid insults

tore her fragile flesh.

The nauseous, acrid stench

still fills her mouth and lips

with sour metallic spurts

of blood and semen,

drunken putrid sweat

and cheap cologne.

So now she is exposed,

hiding in shadows;

Demons locked inside

with suffocating coils

poison-flicking tongues,

every waking thought

with malignant nightmares;

of her fitful sleep;

the tireless harpies

at her forbidden table

where she sits, each day,

bereft of self-love.

But still she hungers dreams

where fear-thickened blood

and the waking torment

of rough, bruising hands

and self-abused flesh

are flame-consumed

of calm acceptance

and merciful forgetfulness;

that her rising is to the warmth

of an open, peaceful heart,

in the arms of a Blue Angel

who heals her damaged soul

with a love beyond

that of any man;

who soothes her hollow pain

and drinks her bilious tears

as if they were his own.

The single voice

and joyful essence

of her summer’s day,

the longed-for

wanton arch of

sweet penetration

in her moon-spun

luminescent nights

of swollen, tidal love;

her spirit free

as blue wings beat

the soft, downy rhythm

of her newborn heart.