Throat Full of Glass

I've seen your face in the fever —
a bloom beneath black water,
your hands pulling constellations from my open mouth.
You wear stillness like a wound —
something holy, something breaking.

I would bleed to taste you —
split my throat on your name,
let the hymn of you hollow me out.
Every breath is a needle in the dark,
every prayer —
a slow crucifixion beneath your weight.

If I begged you to keep me,
would you wrap me in wire?
Would you carve my ruin
into something worth worshipping?

Or would you leave me here —
mouth full of glass,
singing you down into the dust?