peeling pomegranates

it was like giving birth,

in that cramped apartment,

fingers sifting through soft

flesh for ripened seeds

it was like committing murder

on that scratched wooden floor,

in your underwear,

ruby juice like blood, spattered

against lower stomach,

right above where your womb 

would be

would be.

it was like leeching life, 

to lick it from your fingers,

it was like the most lonesome

kind of death, to fall asleep,

curled into yourself on that floor,

room, heart and abdomen empty,

thighs, teeth, and hands

stained red.