In Fiction

 
I kept the collar off
to see whose smiles you wore
and how you walked in fiction
if at all.

Gave you to the bastard merchant
without a choice,
that was cruel behind your eyes
which defined truth for me
and now I am limestone
willing to erode under your shelter.

Don't wear my frown,
it shames a white handkerchief
and although my footprints
are set in concrete
their shape remains abstract
to me.

You danced
but
all I saw were bones
jolting into obscure angles
without rhythm

without care

and I see all my faults
digging to the back of my eyeballs
with septic nails that splinter off the sockets
and I'm still yours
in fiction
and nobody's.