there is no window here.
therefore, no one can see
me
dreaming endless
of h.im.perfections. ..
his voice pa[i]nts
this room; i can hear it.
and every flaw
seems more luminous.
::what he could do to me
if he were perfect::
i am in absolute ruins. i sleep
through the day
and sweat with prayer
inside
four crumbling walls, minor scrapes,
bruised ego and scrolled up arms.. .
his everywound licks at my lungs.
i breathe into a paper existence.

there is no window here.
therefore, he cannot
watch
the collapse of my restraint.
he cannot smash my
hips, with lips, or flip the switch
to illuminate any more of me
than i have already altar.ed;
nor can he press his hands
to the pane that divides our
hidden imaginings, s.pinning
arms to the wall, like
butterfly wings.. .
yet i am not the least
bit frightened of what
next part of me he might mark.
 
there is no window here.
therefore, the night cannot show me
my own reflection,
my own quickening pulse
as he readies his
needles and blankets
my faith; i can only offer
my bare back to him;
again. st.r.etched thin
and i can only make sure
my eyes become glass,
make sure my eyes look
anywhere
but up.


    .on.
him.





 

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