dust untouched

i don't have a title for this one.

my body sprawled across
the kitchen floor,
a knife cuddled up next to me 
on one side,
and bandages on another. 

they whisper to me,
softly,
gently,
like my little cousin's voice
when she was once upon a time
still full of innocence and her sadness
could be cured by a crater of
stuffed toys and baby dolls,
and each one of these

are cuddled up next to her
as she falls to sleep.

they are my toys now,
they say,
as they urge me to pull them closer

closer

closer.
that's it. a little more.
don't fret, my baby,
we would never leave your side.

'we are the cure to your sadness.'
my body is a dance floor
and i let them step

and move
to the beat of my knuckles
breaking against the bathroom walls.

it wouldn't hurt long, they say;
it is as light as keyboard tapping,
as the weight of your hands
from the dumbbells of your thoughts

desperately tries to write something
on your essay paper,
but you just can't think straight.

the knife is my moon, my lover

against the burnt out kitchen light
glistening and smiling
jagged as craters
and the way it gleams with its teeth all out

seems to be rather mesmerizing to me
(they've always said that moons

were company for the lonely.)

but the bandages say
not to let anyone know
of the affair that the

two of us have chosen to start.
i wouldn't want anyone to know
of it, right? cover-ups for 
any questions asked, and we continue 
to keep for ourselves what we do
in my bedroom
at 2 am
hysterically crying.

our relationship is ours and ours only,
they whisper to me 
as i walk up to a store counter,
buying more of their like,
buying more affairs,
filling up my crater of toys and stationery.

we can do this every night,
stay close to me every night.
i'll hold them close the same way

they do to me
until i cannot hold them any more
closer than closest.
our relationship is our secret;
this is no fling.
i can stay forever,
and ever
and ever
until my bones
are mere ember.

i am an ingénue,

and they are my artists.