Streaming down like fierce waterfalls there
to the pockets of Your skin, creased. I do not
care about Your broken hearts or sprained ankles.
Your bruised legs.
I want to be alone in this
blackness, away from the yellow
and purpled life with You. And Your jokes and candles
and dinners and rings.
It will go away slowly, like crying
in the bathtub. The water from My eyes
and disappears there amongst the luke warm womb.