I, awake. I, in fits. I,
breathing in the breaking of this
moment; bruise born out of
loving like a war - his hands, his hands
again looming and I, lamb. I,
inviting. I, close to the impact and knowing
that this symphony of bone is just
overture; is the curtain, is the way we
play our parts and so I, willing, take
your bloodied fists and kiss my blood from it.
I, on puppet string - take you to the bathroom
to wash the evidence; to drown myself
and I, turning away. Turning towards.














