my body is an apology,
paying off debts that
I don't owe. my body
is tired, thankless,
an empty pit, a broken
mirror, a monument to all
my sin. a church to save,
but nobody saves me.
they lay me to rest in
my coffin of rot, my pits
of self-loathing and they
leave me there. they
believe I deserve it.

I believe
I deserve it.

nothing is permanent.
but then again,
nothing is permanent.

do you miss me?
the girl I was before
my lips turned to ash
and my fingers left
black tar smears on
the furniture?

soft. sweet. haven't
seen her in years,
not since the blonde
curls went dark.
so did the eyes.

feast or famine,
there's war in
my bones.
wipe my
blood clean,
brush away
the ashes,
burn what's left.
let the smell of
gunpowder replace
the lavender and
the honey and the
sweet salt of us.
start over again
on the charred
remains, leave
the burning bed
frame so we remember
to do better
next time.

like most things,
you are left on
my nightstand,
unfinished.

the roses
died. little
shriveled
petals made a
path out of
our garden
and into a
graveyard.
our names on
the stones,
love me,
love me not.
an undoing,
of sorts. a
****** in
another.
said goodbye
too early,
buried the
bodies too
late.

you put your hands on me
like I am a church, a body
of worship, a home to confess
all your sins. write my
body like a poem, like a
confession, like you'll
find in me the verses of
redemption.

I am not your savior, not
a holy body. I am nothing
like salvation. I am the dark
place you only visit when
you're overrun with guilt
and rot and desperation.
I won't leave you feeling
clean, you'll leave me with
stains on your skin and ache
that will never empty.