deepundergroundpoetry.com

Inside my veins

I know someone who called his lover's body  
a "crime scene".  
But dear, it's my body that is a crime scene.  
My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick.  
My body is a brush fire.  
It’s ticking, a slow alarm.
 
I have rain boots. Lots of them.  
It isn’t raining anymore.
 
The words are coming back, honey.  
The way they fit and jump in the mouth.  
I want ice cream and long letters.  
I want to read long love letters but  
I don’t think you love me anymore.
 
I think I’m used up.  
I think I’m the grit under your nails,  
that someone who looks good in pictures.  
I don’t think you love me.  
I think they broke me, baby.  
I think I drink too much and it’s because they broke me.
 
I heard about two boys recently,  
two men crushed like cherries in my jaw.  
They showed me how to speak.
My body is melted wax,  
it is ripe and sticky and bent.  
It was a mistake.
 
I walk like an apology.  
I don’t hate people, baby, I don’t.  
I have a hornet in my head, baby.  
A hornet.  
It's angry – it hurls herself against my skull.  
It stings.  
And stings.  
 
I know I don’t make sense, honey.  
This is the problem.  
I’m a ticking time bomb now.
I have razors under my tongue.  
I’m sorry I cut you, honey, I’m so — so sorry.  
 
I gave you a card for your birthday once,  
it said you were my hero.  
You are.  
Your laugh is a thunderclap,  
your love like surgery.  
I think they broke me, princess.  
I can’t erase their faces.  
I want to swim, princess.
 
Remember when I used to dance?  
I used to make you laugh.  
My feet are hot.  
The bottoms of my feet are scorched sand,  
August asphalt.  
My body is a slug,  
a mob of sticky wet rot.  
No one touches me anymore because I’m rot.  
Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up.
 
They cracked me open, baby,  
I know you don’t want to hear about it.  
You don’t want to hear how they looked at me,  
how they gnawed me like raw meat.  
No one wants to hear how they made me drink lemon juice,  
how they kicked me,  
how they upturned the furniture,  
no one wants to hear how my skin  
turned to a dark thick of purple and black and lead.
 
My body is a hive.  
I am red ants and jellyfish.  
A yellow sickness.  
My body is a used apology in an alley of this city.  
I don’t think they love me, honey.  
I think I’m hurt, baby.  
I think I was the tough one for too long.  
My body is a trial on somebodies tongue.
Written by ivanagasparic
Published
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