i thought i might line
the backs of my hands
with pills
with promises
and prick my fingers
upon the pinnacle
of all that is you
tracing paths
which never bleed
(my psuedo-insecurities
are merely tasteful
decorations
by which you may
orient yourself
and claim to understand)
i have no enigma
buried behind my eyes:
these faint tremors
belie no hidden danger,
no fault lines
scarred across this
wasteland waist
this no-man's body
with oceans
instead of palms
no echoing thud
in the late of night
to keep me awake--
just something small
and tender-fleshed
slipped between ribs
and gone unnoticed,
a forgotten bit of you
it didn't hurt
to leave behind
here your love
collects dust
on the floor
of my insides,
wrenched loose
and tattered.
Copyright 2005 doll on the rag
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