I'm just a granite slab of a statue
I have moss on my calves and on my back
because I am facing South, towards
the far-off sea;
but even this is wrong.
Break my fingers,
Break my knees inwards
so that I come heavy to the forest floor
scattering into my many earthen pieces,
into my many girlish sighs,
every quiet sadness, every unrequited torment
slipping from my gut
like wet intestines.
Every tucked away breath spilling through my lips
as I lay my face cold to the soil
as I have so many nights to your shoulder.