feathers in our bed

love, he says, is not real. he’s said it again: with his nails digging in my collarbone, those flighty night-howls always drowning his voice.  but it’s still shaky: i think he’s like a faulty clockwork that won’t admit it’s malformed / breath trembling when he says it yet his greedy fingers want more to grasp upon. define pressure point for me, & I’ll tell you what’s his. love is not real, he says when all lights are out, hips moving carelessly. ( when i say I love you, he never laughs, but  his lips tremble & he whispers, don’t do this to me )

Can you hear the breaking? It is the holiest part.

i.   you and me were a story i loved, dear, aflame with passion, alight with life. ii.  but now we’re a hulking animal in the back of my head, dear,  and i’d tear the pieces apart iii. if i only could hold onto them long enough without burning.