You make my heart coil
into the seed it once was
before the dirt and sun
I think I’ll lock it up in a chest
and throw it into the sea
you think it’ll grow
with all that salt?
I bet it would
maybe even into
light that could penetrate
whirlpools

to the sound
of your friends playing a game
involving beetles and songs
I could’ve played along

but I could feel your eyes
and honestly, I’d gouged them out
if they weren’t already bleeding
forests, priests, and poetry

So I'll burn them instead
in an attempt to soak
any chance of fire
I swear

The only way
I could leave you is this:
with your eyes closed and
every memory of you in ashes

What happens
when neither one's the head
and both are tails?
The chase does not begin
and the end is non-existent.

You never asked me if I've ever had ***—
to my relief.
The air would’ve died long before I came up with:
"No, I haven’t”

but it's not like I haven't thought of your fingers
running down my thighs —first like eyelashes
then with force only second to that of my front teeth on my lower lip or
your palms heavy on my arched back as you
cleanse the isle of my ******* with your tongue.
I’d sit on your lap in rebellion thinking
no one should feel as vulnerable as this
but then your touch’ll come like a note in an ear worm —expected
and ridden with guilt— and the next thing

I know I am beyond redemption.

No, I haven't had ***
but purity is more than just unchartered burrows
or skin behind layers—
more than the image of a dove against
a backdrop of perfect ivory.

It is the sound of your laughter
when I told you about a teacup tiger
plaguing my dreams.
It’s the twitching of your brow even after months of looking
eye to eye—
the crack in your apology
for accidentally touching my skin.
Purity is your voice when
you tell me it is enough for me to stay—
to just stay.