(You.)
i.
I’ve never written a decent love poem
I’ve let my words crawl up my throat
Hanging loosely on daggers
The fall was more enticing than the falling
ii.
When I was fourteen I saw the print of
The Valentine’s Day Massacre
The gang war masquerading as flimsy reports
Of criminal justice, hanged by worship of
Laundered lives
Maybe it was in the black and white
That I accustomed to love the absence
The outside waltz of my organs painting in
A language that taunts me for not recognizing
I’ve committed every felony
To think there would be the remains
Of a war-torn love
Stained on my fingertips.
iii.
He blazes for a mission of love
And he knows
What it means to be ink-stained and
Born out of emotions
He told me he loved the word juxtaposition
“It even sounds cool”
I’ve stumbles into juxtapositions myself
None that have pulled out the welcome mat
To invite me home
Quite like you
Fingers that stitch a wound of
Begging flesh, I'm wrapped around you
Needle-enthralled, pausing for quick fixes of red
Consumed.
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