i live in palaces built by your other lovers
ramshackle shacks made garish by your desire
we sleep in beds made by ghosts under sheets.
if i close my eyes,
i can pretend as well as you
that the darkness is empty,
that we are not being haunted.

i sit on your chest and
dig between your ribs,
a paralysis demon with trembling hands
malpracticing on your heart,
tiny fingers prying at
tiny doors,
masochistically longing
yearning
for proof
that i always come last,
that love only exists in your past.