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.