My wounds are healthy sprouts for sale.................. (Revel in your curse)

I am not a nun

I have exploited all my lovers

I have fed food to the demons 

Every time I found a lacerating sentence 

thrown at me like bullets from the lips

I have imprinted it naked on the papers

For grieving, mourning and stripping off

And ran wild with it 

like a morning newspaper hawker 

I am more whorish but

I have turned them into a whore 

No less

I follow my trance ritual quite diligently 

Until there is zero difference left 

Between I, me, him, theirs 

I have healed that way

And you must too 

Wait till their empty kisses 

And words of warmth 

dissolve into nothingness 

Wait till you 

Wait no more. 

This longing has to stop 

You have to stop narrowing down

Yourself and the bed whose sheets 

Smell of no one but tears

They are yours, yours alone

You gift them to the world 

And watch it bloom 

Like you never bloomed.