31.7.10

outside.



He refuses to remove his shirt, 
the sleeves have been cut off
I've hidden every knife in the house, though none belong to us.

I've never seen a body, a body like his.

the body of a wolf
mutilated, deranged, 
the blood. 
the talk of terminal bliss.
cross hatching skin through skin, motion etched neatly.

I try to read the thought pattern carved into his chest
his stomach, his thighs
his bloated purple lips.

sweetly, I blame myself.
some nights we are beautifully manic, 
we frolic in our bodies 
majestic as our love allows.
today, we are only damaged, ugly.

think of the children outside.

2 comments:

Russless said...

in all stark and sadness, this is really, really good.

Lay Dee said...

i love you.