the divide

i know it,
the taste of blood
the metal tang
of it, the heaviness
on my lips.
i burned for it,
staring
blankly at the sky
gone the dull color of iron
and poised to pour its
own blood upon us,
cloud
to woman, woman to soil
the inscrutable look of those
who haven't had the ample
opportunity
to taste themselves
bleed.
to lick crimson
from their flesh as if they, too
are cognizant enough to understand
that bleeding is only
a sign that your heart
still beats, that you
are [barely]
alive