I.

i didn't want to taste you but
there was blood on the inside
of your lip. i wanted to kiss it.
lick the wound. make it better.
make you better. it begged me to
come, imbed myself in the sore.

it called me judas.
it called me honey.
sweetchild.
baby.

it wouldn't stop calling.


II.

you were afraid of light,
the foggy grey embers
reaching up, touching.

i wanted to speak to you in such a voice,
as to take you into my body & hide you
next to my mother
next to my brother
next to all those whose love
i have hidden.

there were no appendages i didn't search.
no contours left uncovered.
on sunday i devoured your wrists
traced each vein twice in charcoal
then smudged myself into your pores,
wrapped us in plastic:
black legs & skin & watery mess
slithering inside
red cellophane.

such a beautiful, dirty boy.


III.

broken e string
i took it between my teeth
inside my mouth

where i took all your broken pieces.

i was unloveable & you were right
you didn't love me but i imagined
all the feathery lines, the concrete
the ink & photographs
the black & white & grey etchings &
how the babies we made might have
your hands, my vision & love

such love.

but you were such a dirty, broken boy,
& now, all i want to tell you is:

you were all the artistry i craved
because you came, made of sunflowers
& all i wanted to do was
uproot you
hold you
wrap you
bury you
in my tangled hand
in red cellophane
inside my ribcage

where i have learned to hide
all the beautiful things i've swallowed
but never eaten

where i scratched your name
after you first encouraged me to
lick the wound.