Deus

Smother me with your words, for I am a book

concussed and collapsed to the floor,

vomiting ink from my pages. You

promised

to be the cloth for my cut. You

are the light to my moth-like conscience, as I am

flustered amongst the darkness.

My spine has been bent back and fractured,

only to moan now at every touch, a wail

in the throat of my binding.

Each prick of the pen left me with scars

of gold upon my parchment tongue.

I'm sure I would kiss each of your fingertips, weeping blood

from grazed brick and rust, if I could.

All of my dances in the spring,

spent in a swell of dandelion seeds

and lemon flavoured breeze. What will I do,

when my last memory is one we can no longer share?

Don't leave me to tear the fabric

of my own heart, without a needle of

shared cartilage. Shower my papyrus

with the rains of you, until I crinkle, crease

and become weak with burden.

Ruin me, in every which way with your

being,

and watch me grow relentlessly

from the ground you walk upon.