you —
kissing the scars on my skin;
such a delicate, carefully crafted
form of poetry, honey,
i will lay it down apollo's altar.

your lips.
my wrists.

again.
and again.

and for a moment there,
they don't look like
a bedlam of veins cut open.
for a moment there,
they look nowhere near
the metaphors
used in place of my self-destruction.