i’m starting to love my body the way you used to tell me to

There are stories in your eyes.

I never told you how
sometimes I fell asleep
with the thought that you
were perhaps the moon-

always disappearing
with the dawn.

I want to hold your hand rather desperately.

my skin was paper,
and you finally figured out
how to tear it.

my blood was ink,
and you finally found how
to use it to write.

and i didn't even fight against you,
because i am an empty book,
and i wanted to be filled with
something, i wanted to feel something
real, even if it was as toxic
as your breath.