It's always been cold here, beneath your sheets.

You covered me in sweet nothings,
and I didn't have the heart to tell you
I didn't have a heart that beat.
How could I, when you didn't even
believe me when I told you
poetry lay naked underneath
my skin, carved into my very bones-
That anyone with eyes could see?
That your sweet nothings
might flush my flesh,
But have never once touched my insides?


And with a scalpel,
you swore you would prove me wrong.