nearly home. nearly home. a space and time away from where you want to be: belonging to yourself. there is a midnight garden somewhere inside my lungs, black and tarry from the darkness i am siphoning from your lips to mine, trying to let the light in, trying to stop the hurt becoming a euphemism for two vertical red lines drawn in a bathtub. you have turned me inside out. raw, vulnerable; the silence is an agony.
you have wormed your way inside and I have agreed to be your golem, a clay replacement for the affections of the woman who bedded herself beneath your skin and rearranged your spine. even so, let me give til i am a dry husk, let me pour what’s in my veins over you to wash you back to shore
no lion has eyes like yours, cut from the very fabric of the ocean, you are between dawns and you are limitless in dusk. you are too much a night creature to be good for those who dwell in the day, sitting in the cave of your bed, waiting for the foolish wanderings of curious b