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lionhead

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lay your bones down in my bed.
put them by the rips and tears and folds of me,
foreboding, a warning to all like barbed wire in the teeth,
i am yours but beware of dogs.

i am afraid to learn you, back and forward. i'm afraid to bend your spine to cracking, seek your depths
for treasure (or demons)
when i see you i think of that morning, grayed, burning pancake batter to the stovetops.
i see the purple bruises on your cardboard hipbones, the crescent scar under your wrist. i see the reflection
of my guilt in your half lidded eyes and i shut you.

i could open the door in the silent mornings and watch her dead.
she lay motionless save for twitched eyes, dreaming of
young days with sand and sun and perfectly smooth skin
with him and her against the odds at 19, 19 days, 19 hours, 19 minutes together
they lock fingers and i can see her grip the bedsheets where his shape is indented in the mattress.

my hands cry grasp me and you grasped, sewed me to your winter coats in the back of the closet and held me
in refridgerated tupperware for later. you pulled me out to drape across the windowsill like a taxidermist.
i laid my hands across your shoulderblade and you fell to your knees. you are soft like snow.




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