You make me bleed, I bleed for you,
though you don't realise, but I do.
I bleed for you each month and moon
streams of devotion from my womb.
I bleed inside when you reject me,
decline my abhorred tenderness,
decline all I so long to offer,
reject that very heart of mine.
The heart that pumps, and beats, and stirs,
pushing red liquor through my veins;
and every drop, I loose for you,
I loose myself, and it – too…
You do not want me, want it not,
just let me bleed, the reason God-knows-what.
I'd like to bleed to death for you,
the way that I made you bleed too.
Would my death get you satisfied?
Do you get pleasure from my plight?
And if you did, so I did too,
back then, when I, in rage, drew blood from you.
I did so hope that we need not repeat
the morbid violence of my deed,
but maybe Karma wants it true:
I made you bleed, now I must bleed for you.
My dearest soul, forsake me not,
release those patterns that we got,
release them all, let them run free,
just like the blood you draw from me.
When you refused to sit near me,
I wished to let my blood run free,
bleed over all those pointless seats,
all over you, the floor, your feet;
cut up my veins, cut up my heart,
kneel down 'fore you, chest cleft apart,
throw myself prone upon the ground,
causing a horrid, sloshing sound,
with one last breath, forsaken, numb,
I'd say: 'Is it you really are this dumb?!'
Of course, I did do no such thing,
but in my soul I felt the sting,
that burning pain, that ache, that surge,
to hurt myself, a deep, strong urge.
You never ask me how I am,
your only interest's what I can,
and will, do practically for you,
your thoughts not wasted if I'm blue,
don't want to know just who I am
and how I feel and where I stand…
If ever asked to tell the truth,
I'd have to tell you all the news:
the fact that I collapsed in pain,
back in your absence, I did faint.
They had to take me home to rest,
nobody knows what's in my chest;
nobody knows my state of heart,
and how I long just to be part
of your life and have you in mine,
give birth to your child, our child – mine,
and maybe bleed that way for you,
a way that's fertile, loving, new,
a way that adds love to our lives,
does not subtract with pointless strife.
Instead my womb, its urge subdued,
bleeds in wrong places, out of view,
bleeds inwardly, disease ensues,
grows yet more tissue, places new –
can't I bleed properly for you?
Tell me, 's my blood no good for you?
Not high enough a sacrifice,
to make you love me too small a prize?!
And all that pain I'm going through
still won't redeem me in your view,
but just how should I hurt for you?
How can I prove my aim is true?
My womb is aching for your child,
futile passion, wild and mild…
Look here, I'm ready, tell me true
just how you'll have me bleed for you!