More Red than Rust

I broke open with a sigh, like a rotted pomegranate;
spilling flesh and seed, more red than rust.
I note this because I am often asked
for the color of my insides, where I rarely think to look.
Before I accept within me the pills, the needles,
I have to know: is it tissue?  Is it blood?
When and how much do I drain and ache?

Every question hurts.
I want to close up, tight as a mollusk under siege,
to form a pearl in silence and solitude
under the ink-black sea.
I am an animal but I bleed like earth:
more lava than rock, more water than land,
more red than rust.

Abigail Myers
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