I slip my hand between your thumb

& pointer finger,

you squeeze it gently, stare to the right

where the painting you like best

hangs. This isn’t a fight.

This is an I love you.

I love you & it pains me

to be so exposed. All my soft, important parts

visible to you alone. I’m a living cadaver

on your autopsy table – your saw pressed

against my chest the night you said:

I am so completely yours. Those words

tore through my thin skin layer, blades

chewing away at my sternum, you pried apart

my ribcage, cracking bones like knuckles.

You could poke holes in my liver like a hungry,

mythical vulture; bury your head

between my open ribs, take a bloody breath

of my lungs, lick my aortic arch – you could

make a meal of me, if you wanted.

I love you –

& it hurts so much when you nibble

my apex of heart, I often wonder

why any of us do this at all.

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