You, Odalisk
I think I've known you all my life.
I've hidden beneath the roots of your dark,
cloudy hair.
I've tasted the rushing flavors behind your teeth.
I held your very own breath;
the one which with each exhalation stays motionless
in a chamber just behind the place where your nostrils meet your throat.
It's to that breath you send all the blood
from every cut, bruise and scrape on your feeble heart.
You catch it all and imprison it in the breath,
and even when everything there is to say has been said,
you hold that bloody breath like it's your only tether to life
or Sanity or Truth.
To breathe it would be loss,
a violent thrust into nothing, the awful coffin of freedom.
The breath is what keeps you alive, sane.
The blood for you is Truth.
I said I think I've known you all my life.
What would it be like
should you and I know
something else?
