My scalp is hot from ironing my curls out. My skin is burnt
from the callous on the tips of your fingers and your nicely kept nails

while mine are brittle and broken. I pick at the fire for a second or less, fall
asleep to the touch you left

so I wake with warped skin, pink and wrinkly
at the surface. You're not there yet. You keep your pores clean

while mine will fill and flush. My knuckles are paralyzed:
you, fluid.

Four years of collecting kindling, of poking. The last of May is in my
sweat stains. There is bonfire in your hair.

Our joints move to mold

, your world shapely with straight lines and perfect
acute angles. Mine, obtuse.

You're the only one to ever tell
me I was beautiful, and look at what it's done.