The Fetish

She bleeds on the page
it pours in red rivers
spiraling down the whiteness
a stark contrast of solid and wet
but it is just a page
what makes it exceptional is
the red,red blood

It's the heart that does it
Pumping the life juice into the palms of her hands
the same heart that makes love seem so
attainable
and yet not

The same heart that connects
foolish syntax
from heart to head
back and forth
in and out of balance

Each day the veins crack open anew
tears and jagged edges
burn and rip
until the veins are open enough
so that she will write

She will write and bleed
a cadence of ups and downs
a means of remaking paper and pen
computer and keys
blank, white screen
endless possibilities

It is her fetish
Her strange kink of pleasure and pain
Endless yes and thus
so full
so very full of hope