you string me up
like paper flowers
your hard work makes territory
of my skin and still I turn my mouth
upwards in slow motion.
I read my future
by the soft light of you.
recognition pours from your bones
and uncurls me like paper fires in reverse;
I’d spent years digging through the ashes of my
childhood only to find my voice in your chest
that splintered, vulnerable thing
that lets me thank you every morning
when we are nothing more than a
confusion of limbs and braille lips
barely ever necessities we are,
but I won’t bother with words when
I can read you with my eyes closed.