Poem for a Poet

These days I find blood 
In strange places,

Drops falling like rain
Staining the carpet.

Then I remember the razor dragging,
Unzipping me from myself.

Why do I plant 
The arms and legs of dolls

In the earth 
Of the redwood planter?

Am I planting myself?
My only pictures of you

Are on the covers of books.
You search for women

To belong to
When you know, deep down,

You belong to me
Or at least the part of me

That makes you hunger
For more bloody morsels.