It’s like my heart is a cooktop
And you’ve pointed a garden hose at it
With your thumb over the nozzle.
It’s like my chest is a delve
Ever deepening, and a tempest
Has submerged it in a snow that melts on contact.
~
It’s like the heat in my limbs has retracted
To my centre, and digits have blackened to
No avail because I’ve no need anymore
For them – I’m concentrate.
~
It’s like my gut is a stalagmite
Made of whatever’s dripping
From the moss-endowed rock between my lungs.
It’s like my body is a receptacle and
you won’t touch me enough,
Even though you never could.
~
I claw at your back, looking for
A place beneath your taut freckled skin
To die, to rot and to be taken up.
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