The bruise on your left knee is yellowing
and I watch it when you're speaking.
Your breath is straight from the oven,
your teeth clattering like a rattling spoon
as you feed me your words,
hard and fast--my stomach so full I can hardly take more.

You talk at me like I'm a chalkboard
and I should be able to create your words at the same pace that you can;
you stop feeling my gaze on your knee
and you try to tickle me with your eyes,
as if this simple movement will make your words softer.
As if I will stop feeling something if you stop too.

You tuck your eyelashes low, like that counts as an apology,
and you face me like you're strong.
You're always like something.
And you have fingernails like a girl's, and you are one,
and you have fists like an ex-lover
and eyes like the city,
but the city is ugly in the light;
you're only beautiful when the sky dims to night.