Dear one,
the nights
I have spent
bloodying my knees
screaming
Heaven help me
to a God
I do not
believe in,
waiting for
you -
soft as
a psalm -
to pull me
from
my devils.

You turn
your face
skyward,
like
a flower
seeking
the warmth
of the
fading
September sun.
Truly, love,
you are
the most
exquisite
thing
the earth
has ever
grown.

You cannot
remember
my name
or
look me
in the eye,
but you can
take off
my dress
and
right now
that's
good enough.

Sometimes
it is
easier
to let
your
demons
ravage you
from the
inside
than
open
your mouth
and
release them
onto
another.

But
truly,
how
could I
ever have
dared
to dream
that
an angel
like you
could ever
love
a monster
like me?

Maybe
if I turn
my back
you can
see
for yourself
the
******
constellations
you drew
with your
knife.

And so
I sat
in our spot,
his and mine,
and
tried to recall
a time
when I did not love him,
when I did not miss him,
when my body
was not so sick
with the poison
from the
spitting cobra
of his
memory.  

And I found I could not.