Skin, Bone

April 19, 2010
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I see not souls but skin;
Soft, dripping creatures.
I've met their gods and built their world
With my disbelief.
We're all numbers, paralyzed in sloth.

There were days when I lifted him up so high
I saw the stars; I was free,
I was ecstasy incarnate.

Sometimes he was freckled,
Weary but so happy.
Others he was a victory,
War on my windows, life in my mirror.

I followed him—I had to.

I'm nothing if not the swell of his lips,
Because when he looks inside of me
I see so many faces,
Morals, drawstrings.
He paints me with grease and burns
A wicked hole in my tongue.

Each time he doesn't look my way
And bites hard on my neck
I trickle away into nothing.
I slide into the last whimpers
And the gunshots I know so well.

His eyes are calling me somewhere.
I wasn't meant to take it.
I've never been built to look back
And love him.

I'm just bricks crunching glass these days.

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