She's talking about the cloth we're cut from and the scissors she used
but I'm only half listening, because
there is this pain in my jaw that comes from dreaming
and outside the house i can hear somebody speaking

She's asking about the axes I've ground and the wounds I've licked,
I can't tell her a thing and in this dream
my mouth is sewn shut and I am not strong enough to change anything

in the morning I will wonder why she comes to me,
but doesn't stay

and i am sorry, oh
god i am so sorry that
i cannot apologize for the
things that have made my love
hard. i cannot take blame for
the way other fingertips have burned
my skin, i cannot atone for the bite-marks
on my wrists, or the start and
finish lines, the races that have been run
down my thighs and to my ankles.
i cannot pardon the graveyard of past
love that vandalizes my body like an oil portrait,
i have always looked like a museum exhibit
for the art of leaving. i am carved out by
the stained glass of all of my goodbyes
and it has taken my love by the throat,
it has rubbed my mouth raw, it has made
gasps of air between the breaks of kisses
hurt my teeth. i am sorry that i cannot
excuse the people that have
made me flinch, made me distrust, made me
carry myself gentler when it rains. all i can do is
give you a paintbrush and tell you that
i will still be art when you are finished with me.

your fingers on the soft skin of my stomach
remind me that I am allowed to eat, every tickle and pinch tells me
I don't have to worry about my size, I'm counting the kisses
instead of calories,
and the pressure your smile elicits in my chest
is more important than my weight

but what do you do when you're
a shell
a shell
a shell
of the being you used to be
i swear i thought i was the world
now i look at my hands and i
don't know them
don't know these freckles or those lines
i remember i used to tell my reflection
that she was strong and deserved
something good
but i don't know those eyes anymore
so how can i tell that to a stranger
tell them they're loved
how can i when she and i are all we have
and i don't love her

little pink pills
designed to soothe the
overburdened mind

sleep never escapes me
serotonin has

or was I just a hamster
running in a wheel of
self destruction?

your imprisoned pet
to play with
only
when you felt like it

Angels laugh,
At my suffering.
My body is no temple,
And when you touch me
They are entranced
My silent sobbing
Is the music,
That falls in the back
Of their Sunday evening soap.
At least I'm entertaining.

I permanently imprinted
the image of you sleeping
to torture me on a good day
sweden filling out your lips
and long dark lashes rippling
back and forth, we have always
woken up mid-dawn when everything
is still soft and paisley blue, so I can't
remember you in any other way
than dark and lovely, the morning
light always spilling over you like
you were born to be in the daylight
with picks of orange in your eyes
just the way I like them, oak brown
like fresh soil, moss and maple tree sap
looking at me like i'm the only person
who will
ever
look
back.