I am a Mess of the Heart's Litters

                                                                                                   

The air of realization says that

Wearing red does not make any difference.

These past few months I have bled enough

Enough for the red shawls to soak in.

My hair’s a pretty bun. Pinned.

My shoes speak of less walked soles.

The perfume that I wear carries my grace.

Yet, nothing makes a difference.

I am a mess of the heart’s litters.                                                     

 Does it upset you?

That I still walk straight into your mind?

That my memories still burn you between your thighs?

Even your upsetting does not make a difference.

I am indeed a mess of the heart’s litters

Like seashell necklaces

Worn by fisher-women

Adorning their raw fish-smelling necks.