All your art?
Your father threw it away,
sculptures of music that my
hands had helped
create.
It has molded in the yard,
cloth I had tied around my head
as I danced and we drank
malt soda. You've always
always always always
always been beautiful.
It doesn't take me to show
you that. You know.
The need of man's hand on the small of my back,
the shallow of my spine and the shallow of
myself is not art.
Your father threw your music in the yard,
your writing stays right on my desk.
Your words cannot be rotting in the woods,
they'll be safe here with me.

Bruises on my ribs from a rock beneath the floor of a tent,
bruises on my neck from your teeth and you have a beautiful
jaw line. My fingertips dip, you say. That isn't normal. And
colors in your eyes are impossible to replicate in my mind.
I'll study your face, the skin on the back of your hands and the
curve
of your bones. That word makes me nauseous. Curve
away from me, grow like a bonsai tree
I say please then whisper apologies
too often
I know exactly what I want but refuse to chase it
because I am temporary, I'll wound you and leave
a beautiful scar. You have a beautiful jaw
line.

You have the body of Jesus
strung up on the cross for everyone to see,
but it's only me you've sacrificed for.
Pale and thin, rib bones begin
right above the indent in your stomach.
I've cut you down from your cross,
no longer an example of imperfection.
I'll kiss the wounds left on your side by soldiers,
I'll kiss the wounds left on your hands by myself.
Lay you onto stone, your skin stays smooth
the cold no longer will effect you.
Remove all the light, wash off the dried blood
clean the dirt from your knees, that tears have turned to mud
put you to rest, bare and mute.
I'm sweating like I've walked for miles
in your boots.
I'd walk more
if it meant relieving the pressure of the cross you once bore.

Use a scalpel, all sorts of scans
my voice does not do justice to my plan
I will love everyday
and the reds won't fade
not yet.
While five minutes seems like eight hours
my brain uses up my body's power
I'd rather sleep
and keep you close to me
The things I say move towards destruction
and without your voice my head can't function
properly. I miss your feet, hands
tongue teeth elbows
I feel snow in my eyelashes as the wind blows
knock me down,
"sift through my ashes"
stay sober. Stay clean.
I can't rid myself of your energy.

Wake up, it's 3:07
and I don't think I'm at all what I used to be.
I think in times and have music playing inside me
while I kiss,
trace skin with my fingertips.
Whistling while you snore disrupts the chorus,
stop. I want to wake you up
and say I'm sad now, let's talk.
Dig deep to my core, but the dirt is damp
and it's easy. I haven't even given you a shovel.
I'll unearth myself on my own,
give your thoughts a place to call home
bury it back up again and
send you back to sleep.

I thought I'd miss your mouth the most,
worn down teeth all uniform
from grinding them in your sleep,
chapped lips, refusal to use chap stick.
I thought I'd miss your laugh the most,
uncomfortable and weary
unless you were with me,
and I thought I'd miss your body
hip bones making bruises on my inner thighs,
pull me closer closer when you hold me and my hands
never stopped.
This morning I miss the way you smell,
and I can't describe it.
Scent is most closely tied with memories.
I want to smell you on my shirt the next morning
before I even roll over onto my side and kiss those chapped lips,
see those worn teeth smile
feel your arms around me pulling me closer.
I want to wear your shirt to bed,
but it means nothing now that the scent has left.

My feet are swollen when I wake up,
place souls on the ground and the blood rush is enough
to keep me going.
Before I choose to quit walking in the weather all together
I'll walk backwards.
Bare hands against deep purple mittens,
like the story book in my room.
If anyone ever visits my house again
I must love them or I will not let them in.
How can I love them, if I do not let them in
and read childrens' books to them?