i will wake up and cook you eggs (fried and dry)
in a kitchen with too little counter space and cheap paintings.
i will still be naked and buttercup yellow, the creases
of your pillow tattooed into my cheek.
i will close my eyes and feel you slide your hand,
kindly, under the curving fruit of my breast
and whisper something into the soft part of my ear.
i want to know what you will say.

maybe this time when i cut myself to pieces
your lips on my skin will swallow the coldest parts of me, quietly
you will hold my flesh on your tongue and every sigh
will ring inside of you, never empty, never
quite useless, or alone.