How am I supposed to use just
twenty-six letters to detail the stray hairs
that sometimes get caught between cupid's bow,
and touch the small scar on your left cheek--
from tripping over your feet and words?
The friction of our tarnished bodies,
clinging to the edge-- we're both afraid to fall;
the split second heart-attacks that stop
our lungs and blur our vision
and the soreness from ear to ear;
the little pink rose fastened to your neck--
you want it removed-- remember
my blackened lungs need all of you
in my scrap book, especially the pars you hate
and most importantly the brier patch
that tears my flesh, stuck in the pit of my
stomach along with the syllables
I swallowed for far too long;
my autopsy showed it all-- fossilized butterflies
and the acid poisoning my mind--
I know my lung capacity is shot
but I'll still hold my breath until
that 'hello' slips into my ears
and tells my brain, "hey, this is it;
those lips are the puzzle pieces,"
and dear God, I hate needles
but I'll inject you straight into my veins
knowing I can't always be high--
it's illegal after all--
but I will always feel you floating
in my bloodstream, tickling my hypothalamus
and stabbing my amygdala,
washing me clean like a hot bath;
I know they harbor bacteria
and with all my open wounds, it's a risk,
but even if you break the final pillar,
supporting my bones,
at least you'd be the last tear
in my unholy water.