Meter lengths of pink satin ribbons in twenty different shades from fuchsia to dusty contort my organs temporarily back into place.
Tear my chest apart as I lie down with the open single blade of a pair of scissors, score me like a parcel.
Frayed inch lengths and 20 cm lengths and edges of ribbon scattered on the floor.
You slipped your hands down the back of my underwear, like it could be perfect for an evening.
Take the pieces apart neatly, unfold me like a lady geisha. My Chest is willingly emptied for you.
Do what you want with the casings that make up my lungs. I'll cut them into confetti pieces so you can spend them on someone else.
I want to feel the heat melt off the pool chemicals in your breath. Then let you use my bare wrists like towels.

I focus on where the bones in my knees
contact with one another
They look like marrow filled plaster casts of birds bones
Like the masts of bottled pirate ships, in my mind they swing and glue pulls up the surfaces of the wood as you tear the bones out like how you gut fishes
There are sharp edges like the serrated edges of a shark tooth
Small dips where I can now curl and negative spaces are left silently empty are neatly darkened
Puddles of liquid velvet evaporate from underneath and leave the wooden surfaces speckled with sticky stringy lines of tiny alphabets, so tiny you can't tell if they come from our culture or our religion
I'd like to tread in bleached white cotton socks and feel the white fill up with red
These alphabets hooking onto the softened brittle fibres
I'd wait hours until the excess ink fell away and revealed the spaces
I'd let you place your hands between the ribboned surface, you could pull them apart, they would slide perfectly like a new key in a new padlock would twist,and I'd let you examine the utterances carefully
I'd let you place your hands on my bare ribcage so you could feel with your rough fingertips the plaster cast version, the pulse of my wooden heartbeat, you could see how the alphabet confetti has saturated it
I fold my arms and cup the spilling liquid red
I would store it in glass test tubes to be frozen
Then examine them under light as if the red were capable of chromatography
I imagine the freezing only magnifies the frost grated into my heartbeat cocktail

The inside of your throat is fully lined with silver
Where the plates meet there are seams of ancient gold, that was once old slivers of coins and has since been melted and painted on top of your organs and has become the tubes of your bloodstream, the molecules that faintly glimmer in your dark platelets
Like tiles on old church houses, nearly purple flakes of slate separate and cascade into the piles of dry  leaves
I hear pieces snap when I stand on them and it reminds me of how your voice cracks
It reminds me of stiffened folded pieces of dusty linens or fabric found in small wooden boxes with black over-painted hinges
You remind me of charms on charm bracelets, ones that are labelled with prices attached to pins which pierce through cheap looking velvet and thin padding
You are inexpensive and caged up
But we can see you, and like a modern tiger we hear your electronic yawns

Careful, small mechanical pencil, or found pencil drawings,
invisible molecules of led dust settle upon and mingle into silky warmly lit pages
Secretly sandstorms are weaving and pushing marks between the leaves
They bloom into inky coloured metallic wire branches,
and delicately poke through modern punctuation,
tying knots and threading cotton timelines
Coiling and stretching out to catch through spilt glitter hazes,
attaching and embellishing hand crafted lace surfaces preserved in a brittle sheen of sealing wax
Collections of paper leaflets and dried ink observe patiently as you hold up precious encased and bound sentences
which breathe
lightly and calmly, at the same time as your heart echoes it's noises, so that you only feel the pulses
You are standing by your window, at the panes of square glass, keeping out the cold
Probably wearing gloves indoors almost ready to get lost outside
When you return and the cold melts away quickly I imagine those echoes of characters keep you company.

I do not have it in me to be the kind of empty and full that you need
I carry secrets and liquid sad feelings in my stomach like an antique hot water bottle
They are the colours of mashed up autumn leaves and ***** puddle water and decaying petals floating on some pretend witches potion
Crimson rust lines the edges of my eyes, I use black eyeliner to patch the pinprick holes, where I have previously sewn, trying to forget
These are the remnants of my rock heart which has been eroded away
The powder sits regretfully in my veins
When my heart beats I feel it scrape and catch the pink surfaces
It aches too much
My insides are losing their pinkness
Your presence is abrasive
Use a higher grade sandpaper and be done
Take off the old circus ride paint layers, my nail beds are already saturated with chips of red yellow and blue
Reach something clear and peaceful
Cut lengths of my hair, and separate them into small twists, tethered with small satin ribbons to be used for some happier embroidery
Or to be stored in tin lockets
Or to be disposed of in rivers like those Georgian keepsakes that mothers leave at hospitals
Let other people write with it
Pass the used up glass needle like straws through calico or linen
Felt tip the colour over
Cut out my heart and let the elements sit.

If it would make you love me I would lie back
And bottle the secret, concealing it underneath my rib cage like a bottled ship, the twigs and scraps of fabric decomposing like the bones of leaves, dry and crumbling into different dusts
Actually, I wouldn’t even ask you to love me, and I would still position myself in some sparse pretty purgatory for you
Sitting in silence, on cold to touch hospital like bed sheets
There is colour slicked inside my chest, thick in parts as if it were chocolate applied with a brush inside a mould but for you I would keep the light out in some dull opaque haze
Flecks of my soul are rainbow enamels but if I could I would reduce them to dull metal powders for you
I would give up all others because they have no clean sails unlike you
I would allow you all those one syllable words

I think the sky looks best when it reminds
you of Hogarth or other of those 18th century paintings
with dark, tight clusters of small leaves
which scalpol and sillouette
against the powdery blue and creamy spaces
I imagine that I look down at my feet
and see satin shoes,
shimmery and slightly scraped apart at the seams.
The kind of shoes that would
look at home places by deep eggshell blue skirting boards
and bare floors
and light faded crimson rugs. Spindly legged furniture
accompanied by sounds of stiffened hand-sewn
dress skirts grazing the floor like a wedding march
Instead, I feel the cold and dry breeze
pass by my skin and into my lungs
and stomach and every other *****
or miniature tree branch vessel.

I think about what the Landscape would have
looked like three or four hundred years ago,
because it couldn't have looked like this
Now, I realise that like those paintings, this
sky, breeze, leaves and trees are merely an
impression
Not familiar enough or filled with enough bleached light

I would like to think that in another three
or four hundred years others will be breathing
a similar cocktail of air and pollution reminiscent of mine
and provoke some similar feeling

They might visit clothes like the ones I wore
In Museum basements they will be categorised in brown paper boxes
encapsulated in white tissue paper
labels hanging from under the lips of box lids
pencil marks indicating contents.