Blood Fills the Ruby
Jorja James
If, by the colour,
this is the story that I know I must tell,
the one to which I am born
and bred and beaten,
that my blood fills the jewel
worn on the lapel of the man
who ordered the cut,
spilt from my vein
and dripping onto wooden beams,
seeping into foundations
from which I am afraid
others will not be ready to rise
due to the stench, the rot,
the pain that consumes,
and I saw you, I told you,
I didn’t want you to know
but I was afraid and you could hold me
together as you held the world,
I your new, I yours and yours alone,
the only one I wanted,
the only one who could shatter it
and who would take the pin’s prick,
for you would do anything for me
and read me tales anew,
this one remembered,
though the scars are ready to fade,
the casing clear
for the ocean’s right.