dosenherz:

ORION’S SPINE IS CRACKING BETWEEN MY TEETH WHEN I HUNT YOU DOWN:

this is how you become undone in my memory, ragged hair not even you can rule. there’s nothing soft about the silence in my feet; i spent too long watching my own back drift in the distance.

by now i remember enough sharp things to leave cuts in the tender parts i gave to you:

OUR HANDS NEVER TOUCH IN GRIEF.

you pull god through your throat where i cough saltwater. i am twisted but i grow into the everywhere. (and you sow in warmer summers only.) you cut yourself into fork-sized bits a man’s porcelain plates. (when it has always been like this: I HAVE A HABIT OF EATING MYSELF.) in the same room, our smiles become ghosts to each other; they spiral around our wounds. you come with a concept for every hurt you dig up and i have no other metaphor than water for my ache. you counted your moles to call them star-kisses left to tell you what not to love. (and i sit, laughing about my scars.) you wind yourself in agony and to you, it isn’t holy. i say this too is a gift. which is hybris. which is relief.

(AND I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THE ONE EMPTY-HANDED AFTER RAIN?)

now i come to leave the knives beneath your pillow.

we both know they won’t remind you: that i tried to cut through my bones to make you homes, that i moved LUNGS STOMACH HEART when you told me you didn’t remember how to sleep.

now i destroy what i wanted to keep.