Young girls are what you seem to deem,
Smooth, unaware of their pristine.
Flat to bone, spines forming rocky paths,
Easy footstools for you to pass.
No weeds have grown forth to block their kingdoms,
So you fantasize at night,
About riding in as their knight.
A saviours touch turns one into victim.
But I’ve turned my ribs into piano keys for you,
Play an f-sharp and I’ll lash lips in nylon for you,
Crawl on collarbone, peroxide curtains for shelter,
You would do anything to make me feel better.
And I’ve dried up my insides for you,
Fornication in formaldehyde to stop the peel,
Watch veins vacillate, illustrating your world view,
Stuff, stitch, then give me the seal.
Dead leaves on the trees.
Dead leaves inside of me.
But we’ll both get swallowed into the ground eventually.