Scimitar

The gashed forsaken animal in your chest
is not who you are.
You are the razor that slew it,
honed by seven silences,
your edges defined by what is not.

Ruthless and bright
in your gorgeous wounds,
be a scimitar
drawn from the breast
of the Beloved,
dripping the wine we all thirst for.

She who wears the starry armor of night
wants to wield you, and use
your violet lethal incandescence
in the formless combat
of love.