El coleccionista de huesos.
the fierce quiet that lays beneath each of my days
found itself stoked in a fury of swirling ashes
what comes of funeral pyres we build for ourselves?
treaty. reason. ruin.
and somewhere in the midst; him
I never asked for this, did I?
when I slit my ends and buried my beginnings
when I begged and borrowed for a little flame
taste of tongue and teeth, of treason
when I dug the tomb with my own hands
and lovingly buried all my need to break
beneath the beating heart of another man;
did I ask for it? I don't remember.
what I do remember are notes of spanish lyre
soft words, nonchalant and unexpecting;
the way you wake up by yourself
and yet aren't alone.
parts and pieces pull at the edges of my eternity
ever-changing and inconstant, wavering on
the fractions I laid to rest are being excavated
pulled apart by strong hands and a willing bite
so when he sets his fangs to my jaw and tells me
"it's okay, just feel it,"
the little death that comes from worn fingertips
on worried treats of flesh
send me spiraling into the void
before he kisses me back to life