He is all lines and sharp angles
I am soft curves and extra padding
But it doesn't matter so much
When he's holding my hand
Intertwined and all jumbled up,
Or when he's kissing me
Closed eyes and only nerves
Igniting
How strange to think the knife
Could learn to love the butter

the pages of this book creak
like aging and thin bones
we read the story of us
all faded lettering and
dusted paper
the novel falls neatly shut
with a soft thud
and a small whimper
into the fire now,
with the pictures
and the past
the flames eat my heart away

I am not a person
I am masterpiece gone awry
Made up of shipwrecks
With salt water leaking through,
Spilling onto the picked-clean bones
Of my beached whale ribcage
I am hollow hollow hollow
Like the knots of a tree
I curl into myself
Filling in the cracks of my carcass
With that too-sweet, too-sticky honey
I rot all through the winter
And then I rot some more