I have known, and I have cared for, those who think
rebuilding a person is love
which is quite nice
in theory
but then, I became destroyed. I was a project,
a house of cards that had fallen
and frustratingly needed put back together, elevated
the way the moon gets lifted from grass
or a friendship necklace
lurches from my lover’s body. His collarbone peak
separating the relationship from the heart.
When someone told me
love can be piecing each other back together,
I just thought of how it could be
crumbling together, too —
mixed up, mixed blood, if he were to die, my
necklace would disintegrate with his
tongue. We would cremate sterling silver
and even then, he would not be destroyed. We are not
scientists, we are two people who kiss
together like how two
wooden-sticks’ll use the same drum to create music.
There may be splinters, may peel but
can still make sound. No one
takes a drumstick to the repair shop, they just
buy a new one —
I want that to be love. Stop trying to
fix me and touch my everything, all my broken parts.