Happiness Is for Cowards

a woman who is loved does not write poetry
how can I not be angry with you
you've calmed me down so I can't hear my instincts
it is convenient for me -- why should I bleed
and what do I have to cry about
when in your soothing arms I find everything I need
for a worthy happiness
and that is already enough for a small revolution
because if I don't nibble
if I don’t make wounds in all my bodies, do I live
or am I a demigod, towering over life and death
who smugly stares at others from his throne
forgive me, I must leave this home
to find my words
hidden somewhere in the darkness of the world
in my own shadow which you have so illuminated
so it finds no manifestation
if I don't start a fire somewhere, I will go out
if I don't start a fire in someone else's family
I will burn my own
the dust of the years of this earth weighs on me
I have to knock it out dancing the devil's waltz
down to the last pair of shoes
until my centers begin to vibrate
with the energy of a young girl
forgive me, the poetry calls me to live it
to rejoice every night as if it were my last
I'm leaving -- the men are waiting to taste me
to live out their dreams
in the morning I will make an altar for each of them
and I will string them like little pearls
in my new book
a woman who is loved does not write poetry
I'm so tired of being faithful