I have these hands with nails like paint chips
and wrinkles that show my true age.
There's a scar on my little finger
That you never noticed
And I don't know how it got there.
I have these hands with dirt engrained into the thick calluses
Of my palms,
Dirt as in tucked away lies
And thoughts
I'd rather not share.
I have these hands that trace the bedsheets
While I sleep
And touch the places you no longer inhabit.
(My heart, sweat soaked nightmares, under the bed, the crack in my favorite mug.)
I have these hands that get trapped in my un-brushed hair,
And my un-washed clothes,
While they search for the pieces
You left behind.
I have these hands that ache as a heart is supposed to.
You have hands
That shook when they held mine
And now without them
My hands have begun
To shake.
I have these hands, these shaking hands.

You chew on my skin with smooth teeth.
You **** on my salty thoughts
Of tear-stained pages.  Can’t you taste
Their tangy terror as you twirl them around
And around
Your caressing tongue?
I love your lips and when your teeth move across them
And when your fingertips brush them
Like moth wings.
Are you thinking?
Are you thinking about me?
“Think about me.”  I tell you.  Can you hear me?
Hold me in your hands, pockets, mind, bleached skull, coal heart, the warm upper palette of your midnight mouth.
I hate your lips
When they whisper sweet *******.
When they spit out my name
Like something with a bitter taste.
You can scream at me across rooftops, or strip me down until I am nothing
But truth and lies
And scarred bones
But I shall always be here, laying tantalizingly near.
With my smile sultry
And my pupils peeking,
Leaking into yours where you can never push me away.
Remember, babe, my kisses left scars
On your jugular.