twenty-three.

the identity of my great starcrossed lover is obscured,
a rotted-through shell
rocks back and forth
on wood floors behind.

i'm deep down inside
with notes tacked on my spine.
the writing desk of God
you will find pages and pages about it
you will find a poem by a girl
who ran off to become
destiny itself.

tirelessly our bodies tried
to prove love either wrong or right
now i'm a rising sphere of warm ocean water
and she is approving his spirit by night.

!

that is the body of Christ
a volume of works by Sir Charles Dickens!
an insanity that plagues
Only worthiest victims

i'm confused as other worlds
pour into you
and you fold outside-in
with all new landmarks
on your sacred skin...