clockwork
sometimes when i get too
wrapped up in myself,
my ear ends up pressed against my knee cap
and i can hear the clockwork inside.
i told you;
and i knew it made you nervous
because you know how i like
to take things apart.
you’re still reassembling the gears in your head
i am swallowed up whole by clocks sometimes,
and can only lie on my back,
aghast under the
machinery of the universe
kaleidoscoping.
tell me about the mornings you couldn’t bear
to breathe in
just air.
tell me about the mornings you sang
windchimes to the birds
and spilled your coffee on the stairs.
tell me
if the reason you can’t stand
painting with oil
is because of the way the paint won’t stop
holding your hand.
if i were to unstack myself
from the knees up,
would you watch my fingers unlace
their own tendons
and wear my veins like necklaces?
would you help me unclasp the tricky button
at the nape of my neck
and pull my brain out by
its shoelaces?
the roof of my mouth aches second hands.
if i were honest i would tell you
that my knee clockwork is audible
simply because i didn’t put myself back together
right
the first time.