Damnation.

There is an indent in the spaces between
those two moles of which your fingers uncovered;
As you explored ceaselessly over my danger zones
with precision unbeknown even to the illness that ails me.
In response, I ignored the tingling in my chest.
There was something so touching in the fact that each
contact of your fingers against my seething skin
felt like something tilting on the edge of either:
Ribbons, teasing over me slowly.
Or:
The razor of a sharp glinting cutting edge.
Lying here with you feels oddly like sinning,
yet it comes so naturally I begin to wonder
if I was rotten to the core anyway.

Are you feeling okay?

I say the words “yes I’m fine.” A little too quickly
and a little too loudly that I wonder if you
can squeeze through the spaces of each word,
and uncover me like a hidden gem.
Like the mummies curse.
Like something so desperately wayward.

Did you know, that the best place to have a panic attack
is sitting underneath a table on a floor so low that
it nearly mimics the way you are feeling?
So here I am, crumpling up inside your arms like
your fragmented barriers are church pews and
I am a misunderstood child rebelling against every prayer.

I want to fold in on myself.
The depression is eating me like parasites and suddenly:
The worshipping around me subsides; as haunting as a
phantom stillbirth.

I am numb in all those places you have studied like
each emotion corrupting me was the remains of a
lost skeleton. Bone’s splintering in all directions eager
to be held by anyone who’s got warmth radiating
from somewhere within them.

I wish I were buried six feet under a gravestone but
instead I am buried only here, under your bedsheets
with your hands, inflicting decay: Or something extraordinary.
I can’t tell the difference.

There shouldn’t be anything to panic about.
But I am still panicking.
I look like an icon in an abandoned church crying out
tears of blood as everything once loved, once held
so tightly in people’s hearts pierces through me like clouds.

I dream about sinning, more than I dream about living
and I wonder if that means I have fallen after all.

I wish there wasn’t scars in all the places where my wings used
to be.