You, who read my blood,
Spilled on this paper,
Original in red.

Can you tell me who I am?
What makes me tick?
What was it in my life –
Documented by history,
Altered by your perception –
That tortures me so that I must write?
What was it calling to me in the darkness
That kept me awake and brooding?

You are wrong.
I don’t care what you say,
You are wrong.
I cannot be pinned down that easily.
The meaning of these words has changed,
Since their birth in blood.
My heart poured out on this page
But it has dried up and healed over.
It has returned to me,
Since I first gave it to you,
With my words and my emotion.

You are no longer reading my meaning
You can’t possibly have that understanding.
You are now reading yourself through my words.
Not how I see you but how you see yourself
Through my eyes.


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Copyright ©1996 by Carol Hopwood. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic – First Journey (Sept. 2000)
Carol’s biography page