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.