I just took a taste of my waking breath –
it is no wonder then that we do not kiss –
The ugliness of my rum state
places bitter tilts upon our old arousals –
I lay whet by a glaze – an unwelcome stain
on this pushed back duvet of night sweats –
My chest gives birth to salty pearls – loosened
by gravity – set to roll down my bare sides
as trickles – as if wept from woundings –
like precious piercings – but not five holy jabs –
though I do feel pinned by a carried cross –
Do not glance at my nakedness – how I am fixed
by the invisible itches and riveted scars
on my legs – I draw up the bedding – my body bag –
and let my skin rest from your listless look –
instead – I shall watch you dress first – then
I will rise alone and not take in the looking glass
until I have washed off the vilde oozes of blood
which I have picked under the night’s disturbances –
those red fruits of my rough sleep’s self-harm
Also published on Medium