The skin, peeled off, was pinkish and flimsy rubber-
I had been tugging on my chest for Eleven weeks.
I begun to taste like the creed we shared on day one-
Reading of screaming hot tears when you lost my name,
We wrote of gazes and dreaming and needing-
Women in the dusty bright above and bodies below us.
I knew that your rusty lighter would scald me when it smothered my forearm,
But the charred exhale is dribbling off my lips and it feels like angel’s chatter.
I cry and rock.
In a hush between the throes, I am silently reminded of when you shook like the children of God we are, outstretched above me and your body said “let’s be eachother’s anchors when the heavy waves come feral at night”
I blessed you in bites and I am remember when living meant only a dim room and a family secret acted out in voices and costumes and bawling standing ovations, but-
Solemnly now, I have stepped out of more layers than before we began to spend our only dawns unafraid, jumping out of bedroom windows and
Solemnly now, for the sake of chaste condolence, we mustn't kiss.
I’ll fall out of my clothes that way, out of the worthy flesh left and
I can foresee it in your glowing cheeks and long pale hands-
Your skin will have jagged edges and I’ll beg for you to cut all of my favorite places,
I say:
Please, please, please dull your blades.
After these Eleven weeks,
my dear,
my body has no more room for wounds.