you're probably a ghost if you can't stop humming

your hands left welts and rings around my wrist this morning and if i showed you now, you would show teeth, laugh, maybe, (if your bones weren't drowning) and say, "i do". my tiptoes are touching and i wish that they weren't. i do. my skirt is slouching, collar, missing buttons, and my socks won't hold like your fingers do. no matter. i write. i write for you. i ignore violets because you said to, avoid pastels (they're too hollow), glance at closed windows and walk out since ghosts can pass through anyways. my spine is crooked, maybe gravity regrets it too. it apologizes. my toes rise, eyelids fluttering. thank you. the spirits are waltzing. demons don't exist, but crosses hang in every room. and i want to burn this house. i want my jaw to shut on your ring finger and i want to say, "i do". yes, i will burn this heaven with you, in love, and me, hanging like the cross above the kitchen door.