The lungs of who you are betray the bones of what you’ve become.
I could carry you in my chest for as long as I hold my breath,
but that would be too long.
You laid in the grave of the person you wanted to find in me.
Each morning—
in the sleepy cemetery parallel to my body—
I wondered what dark specter hid under those green sheets?
Now your hands are tied between two swords,
with snakes for hilts and skin for blades.
I got the blunt end, so you dealt with the sharp.
You miss talking,
my ears don’t miss being talked to.
You wish this was different,
and my knees do too.
You don’t want change—
which pierced me the most—
but I’ve broken my bones, and through them I feel my lungs.