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The gaunt ballerina of my self-destruction
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does pirouettes at dawn till her feet bleed.
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Blisters dog pile her toes like mountains
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on molehills, avalanche under the weight.
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Tell me why
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you call the pick-up-sticks stacked on her skin
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an escape attempt
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when it is the only thing keeping us here.
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We are not dead yet, those crows are just playing.
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It would be better if you make-believe
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you can’t see them. Throw rocks at my future
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if you think you can glimpse one, but not our history.
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What we haven’t come to terms with hiccups at my diaphragm
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till I am forced to start breathing again.
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I promised only attempt, not result.
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You don’t have to forgive my akrasia,
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but you must look past it. Pretend it will never affect you.
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Pray if you must, but not too loud. My atheist ear drums
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have converted the rest of our body; only her guilt heavy tongue
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is catholic. If you want she can consume your orison
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whole. Place it on the only muscle we listen to and let it seep in.
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Maybe my throat will be so swayed by your fervor
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it will swallow. Better yet give me your love.
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I will let you tuck me beneath your fingernails
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like carefully manicured dirt. I promise to keep
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your heart protected. I have no problems giving my life
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to save yours. I can keep you safe, even though
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I can’t even keep myself whole.
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