Harvest

I tried so hard to harvest the love we made;
internalize it, make it my own,
but I'd scream in the bathroom.
Blood would trickle down my legs,
I'd lay soaked in it.
Did I tell you my cervix is a volatile place to live?
Suicide versus staying alive
and the pain comes fast and swift.
Our love is a jumper, careless and manic
diving to meet death in some public bathroom;
one where people write lovers' names on walls
like a name was a poetic declaration
that there is something deeper than letters banding together.
I wrote our Love's name too.
I gathered the bloody sack and wrapped it to show you.
'He's got your smile," I say pale
and numb and covered in blood.
I walk into the street as though floating.
Part of my soul is a high rise diver;
I am a ghost of what was, a failed farmer
dying from the famine of a poor harvest.