If you love me you will touch yourself and fill my holes
with your smile, step inside me like
you are juvenile skipping through a rain puddle.
Pretend you believe it is tears from the stars that form
****** shapes and still are not full, if you love me
know that I need you to touch me or I will ask an army to.
Those lonely soldiers grasping sand dunes
in their sleeping bags, dreaming of ******* for vitamins:
sometimes your silhouette appears in sweat beads
of my showerhead and I am just like a veteran,
fill as much as I can of myself with my two hands,
I think that if you don’t love me I would rather be dead.

The food rots when it is already in my belly
baby mush, cinders from its graceless fire trail –
I dig my tonsils with ******* but
you will not return to our winter, the exterior.

So, hearts slip backward: a new abode
these intestinal earthquakes applauded in Hell
have stolen fruit I certainly could have froze.

In the woodshed, I discover a scalpel
and attempt to dislodge you from my hipbone
but now my stomach’s been kissed by Satan
I am birthing premature infants from a wound.

Another hour I shall give a funeral
for the apple core, swallow each seed so you
will grow once again safe and sound in my belly.

That is my favorite shade of red
how your eyes go when you roll them back,
tilt your head back, a little to the left –
hurting the leather and yolk of a chair abandoned
in the backseat of an alley, right of downtown
numbers impressed into the branches,
must code every time I spread your legs there.

Enough hours to decompose a body bag,
but I was alive the entire time
and you had enough blood in your face to supply
sisters in an orphanage, glittering privately.

We sipped coffee some evenings,
it became black sand slithering up your dress:
I did not add enough cream.

The mugs were left organized in an aisle
to be gathered later, overcrowded in the glovebox
maroon droplets fall onto my toes as I brake –
imagine a mouse having cut himself
and drowned in the miniature pools you left
of my not being good enough for you, but there
it is nearly my favorite color again
stained between my feet so you cannot fade.

Her figure, a fruit salad: little corks and knobs
jellyroll thighs and a smooth muffin top
unripe blueberries decorated here and there –
I would wrap my arms around her like a basket
protected from bruising or peaches robbed:
the perfect sphere unpeeled, pink honey bared.

I hate myself too much to ******* tonight.
I will not hide my hands down my pants, caress my inner thigh
but observe prettier girls with ******* like peaches
and wish mine were as dainty, fruits in a lined basket –
when you unclasp any of my hooks all you get is sadness.

I love you like you have the only **** in the world
and I say “I want to die” as if I am not dissolving already,
crimson buds sprouting through my gown
stain your lips where they suckle the infection, my poison.

Secrets are in my liquid and you want to find them:
know the other voices I have listened to,
the slick girls I kissed, whose form fumbled with mine.  

But there is a prize under your garments I did not see
with women who stood on me like a veranda
gauging how many splinters they could detain in their toes
and not sample my blood after they slit my thighs apart.

I was once full of myself, now full of you
someway a vein with no sustenance is not limp when held.

I have not looked out the window for weeks
weeds will break me to pieces,
they seem too much like weddings I’ve escaped
where the groom and bride are useless
to everyone but each other, then pulled away.

I think they look beautiful. I do.
The way females palely grow tousled with
tree limbs, cautious not to snap one with weight
and go tumbling from hilltops
dead blades of grass penetrate their kneecaps.

Neither are quite green or brunette
but in discernible loveliness when falling from
a girl’s skin, a satellite rained in cherry beads.
I must say I am in love with the gore of it
needing a heart to pump, but I cannot watch
               as their minds dive within.

Scruffy thing, livid from washing
with the tip of my tongue
found hair in places I knew not existed:
it gave little track-marks, a buried belly button
sprouts in the radius of your private parts
and I scrambled your fur like eggs.

Matted with saliva now
but I find small locks in my ******* from
time to time, ones that did not stick
and were plucked from your pants-line.

They slumber in a box or are wiggled
between your comb’s teeth on my nightstand,
I want to find the torn follicles
and replace the black stems again
compose poems on you with my wet mouth
hide my name in your body hair please.

There are arrows made for killing and
arrows made for loving –

I was oblivious to the latter
until my heart dropped and bled on the floor,
crying, give me over to someone please!

And I did it fast. I was given eternal love
all because of an arrow in the ***.  

One day I will die for the same twig –
wooden, pending, poked through my spleen.
Even open wounds have needs!

I beg like a girl, please oh please,
if you make me die I can live in a dream.

How is it that I can have you inside me
and it feels like everything, every wonder of the world
traveling from under my skirt through my throat

but you are nothing more than flesh and bones?
You are nothing more than me.

I feel you like I feel a pill dissolving into my stomach –
I feel you like I feel fluency in a second language,
we could develop our own, another romance tongue
using the reaction of pale skin being ******

by just-fallen snow. It has never once felt like you
were scratching my ribcage when looking for my heart:
no, just serenade my *******. Set your map inside.  

X marks the spot where I fell the hardest,
I felt it like an earthquake penetrating a beautiful place.