Knead your cold settled muscles with milk, for you are a goddess, you're that gleam in the fire, and its sheen is your honey pervaded body.

Burn some oak with the regular wood,
tonight. Yes, it is you, falling and breaking.
Get yourself those berries you have always thought of collecting from the hillside when you were that jolly little kid. Squeeze-burst them and press them between your lips. They would wipe the taste of betrayal. Bring some amber oil, rub a gentle thumb under your breasts, some more on the collarbone and your neck and your spine, and let your belly feel a little less dead with each healing nuance.
You do not fade. Not in ashes, my love. But this is going to wither away, just like those dried out flowers in your diary, a petal for every lover of your body, and dusted soil for all who could not love enough to suffice your hollow.
Hold your pieces together and let the bruised ones scale away. You are beautiful today, so is life and so is death's kindling delight. Knead your cold settled muscles with milk, for you are a goddess, you're that gleam in the fire, and its sheen is
your honey pervaded body.

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