I hate myself so I won't hate you. The feelings
swell in me like
parasites or a pregnancy –

think of my dead fetus,
a clump of cells
decomposing. My skin is colorless, it died  
before the rest of me

(or him or her or they).

You
have been the lump in my throat for years, I taste
*** and blood and tears
and I *** and bleed and cry
for myself, as if you would not want it.

I already know what you would say – we are
under the same sky
so you will

always be a part of me
whether I want you to be or not.

I hurt myself so it feels natural when you do it
and finally I have the courage

to hope that when
we touch, it breaks me enough to draw
glass from my fingertips
and carve holes in you, too. (I spread
myself open and it was never enough for you).