I rip my chest plates apart, the most rickety china you own.
I throw my heart on the ground because I can feel my love for you too heavily in the depths of my decaying bones.
You burn right through me and I let you sometimes.
I imagine the weight of you never being too much to leave me strength less, because I've watched your chest rise and fall like the world was making way for you in the remainder of its eternity, as if the galaxy decides to lose itself in the stars when you exhale fervor into the crook of my neck.
It isn't too much. I will never get enough.
I’m knocking at your door,
but instead of knuckles,
my heart is in my fist,
And I am beating against your chest.
You draw really well, and I hope you know I’d give you permission to make art on my skin.
I’ll be your canvas if you let me in.