Unsex me here.
Make me cruel.
Let me grasp the hilt and lift high,
momentum for the plunge.
What once lived now bleeds,
and I run my tongue with a lascivious thrill against the blade,
relishing the taste of metallic red as
I watch it flow in sticky rivulets —
the desire that pumped electric life through every cell,
now wasted to the ground.
Love made me do it.
I was brave enough for us both, Macbeth.
And isn't that just like a woman's heart?
Strength untold, the ability to thrive and endure,
while men play on the field,
brandishing their swords and collecting conquests.
All you had to do was screw your courage to the sticking place,
and the kingdom was ours to rule, to own,
ours to grow, to nurture,
ours to savour.
But what's done is done,
and new fancies now your companions making,
implore a lady's leave.
Out, damn spot — out, I say.
I will wash myself of the stain,
the remnant left,
make my garment clean.
And yet it sticks.
I once loved these marks you left upon me,
the viscous streaks,
the impressions buried into skin,
the blooms of colour.
But as I sleepwalk the halls that once echoed with the fiery cries that punctuated a library of our climaxes,
I am left counting the lays of claim
that no longer belong