i am a museum

my sadness is a closed
exhibit

and you, my love,
are the night shift

no one gets to see
but at night
you see enough
just to guard me.

my mind crawls
the same way my skin used to.

admittedly, i draw blanks.
everything i say
is in prose,
yet everything i write
mimics a brick.

hard.
lifeless.

when the rain came,
all was drained from me then
i wore black for days to mourn myself

to those who think they could love me:
tread lightly,
for my ice is thin
in every season

it has been so long
since my fingers fashioned fury
and misery
into poetry.

you see,
my sadness has been gnawing at my skin,
begging
pleading
crying for a way in.
my sorrow has dissolved
into my lungs
like salt
in my wounds.

i have been drowning for so long;
my iron limbs
that once acted as armour
have started to rust
and left me immobile.
so forgive me
if the oil takes a while to work
again.

your name
no longer tastes like fire
on my tongue;
it tastes
like the ashes you left
the first time
you burned me.