It was not supposed to be that way.
No green-purple spots in my eyelids, I said,
said
no graveyard asphalt on the back of my knees.
It was supposed to approach me modestly,
quietly,
with blushing fingertips and eons of time.
I had imagined it would approach me modestly.
In the meantime, I could visit a brothel
or two
whore my heart out, spread open its capillaries.
Poetry is prostitution of the lewdest kind
and how lovely, while I pimp my paragraphs
to eat a man
or two?
There was one
with hardened fingertips and no more than a second to spare.
I had imagined it would approach me plainly.
No sifting through mounds of shell and bone, I said,
said
no puppet shows.
No masquerades, and my veins were supposed to do their job.
This was supposed to be my play,
my knight takes rook,
my girl takes respite.
I was supposed to come out golden.
He was not cruel but it seeped out of him
like mustard gas.
Sickly, yellow,
I inhaled it with relish
acid burned its way down my cheeks
through my chest.
And how beautiful, to love and be loved
without feeling it crush your lungs.