I(ron) Suf(ficient) F(rau bei d)er

Pooling drops of dark red blood
hesitate on their journey down her arm.
She's got tears in her mouth
but she's iron deficient,
so she traces curly-q's across the raw flesh,
painting her pinky finger cardinal like the 
Naked Man with Knife, then dips it into her mouth,
slides it between her salt-rimmed lips 
in an awful reenactment of Klint's
Frau bei der Selbstbefriedigung,
holds it there, beneath her tongue,
where the lingual frenum binds the 
floret of taste of talk of taut
to its eternal root.
mMmmMmMMmmmmM, she whispers
with a crack in her voice. the carmine elixir,
though it feeds her, cannot satiate her–
cannot fixir. 
That hunger for aliveness never dies. 

This is not madness.
This is real fucking shit.
But if it is,
To Love is Madness. To Love and Be Loved by others and by your own iron-deficient self.

Ophelia, why did you not drown in the ocean? 
Rivers offer no salt to invest in your wounds,
so as to make them 
burn
burn
BURN
til from this journey there is no return,
and your scars serve as a reminder
of All That you cannot discern. 

Ah, I see–
You must've been sodium-deficient.
That's the difference between 
You and Me.

Brinn W.