They put nails in my palms
for loving you.
You described bookcases
as a ladder to the moon,
and they did not care for that.
You labelled the radio
as the death of the album,
and upon each of your words
another sparrow flew
from the windowsill in my mind,
off to join you for warmer times,
your flesh on mine,
your glass, my wine.

They told me that you eat men.
High heels and corsets
as you make their acquaintance,
a black hood and axe
as you take a moonlit walk
past the old cemetery.
I would be lying
if I said I was not scared of you.
I would also be lying
if I told you I came with devotion,
or any other plan that did not
involve taming you with ***.
They put nails in my palms
for loving you.

They put nails in my palms
for never wanting you to go.