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Her hands imported glitters from foreign places, and she would season me with them, prepare me like an entree.
She would write her love letters to the moon onto my threadbare skin, hoping my stretched out lumps wouldn't smudge her sonnets.
It hurt when I would try to hold her in those honeyless nights. She hid in the undergrowth, like the sneaky red wine foxes that leave my flowers drunk.
There was always a detached warmth whenever I would feel the familiar indented dip of the bed.
Her eyes made me want to explore the network of her veins, every budding nerve, and cell, every organism burgeoning without her notice.
But, her gold crown was crafted from the layers of skin she'd hewn from my back with the knife she stabbed me with.
And when my hands felt like scrutinizing me again, they felt like someone else's. Like hers.
I gave her slices of my heart, and she would cure them until they were nice and dry, no longer soaking in my blood, and they would be her main courses until I had nothing left to give. until I was but an excavated cavern with no treasure to find. until I was no longer fruitful for her taste.
She painted her lips with the blood of the queens who had fallen before her. She took their life from their diadems and used that handicraft from which her fingers gilded to manufacture a new lacquer she would soon add to her collection.
She knew the value of my worth and sold it to drunkards and velvet traders.
She knew the value of our love and compared it to cheap champagne that bubbles the wrong way.
She was addicting, like the chocolate you say you would save for later.
She was bad for my health, I took off big milky chunks that I couldn't swallow, my teeth going sour from the sugar.
I would overdose on her, run back to her for more, pleading her to inject me again.
Begging her to stay became a habit until the roof of my mouth tasted like citrus peels.
Her lips took purchase upon my jaw, rusting the wires beneath my plastic casing a pretty purple. They tasted of cocoa beans and when they would blend with mine, we made iced americanos.
And when fatigue would nestle between the soft wrinkles of her stardust eyes, I would nuzzle her satin hair with these nimble fingers of mine.
Stark as a midnight sky, ebony curls intertwined with murky smidgens of twilight phantoms.
Quiet skin warmed by the morning sun, muted kisses on delicate ashen foreheads.
This queen of mine, she makes my heart sore with mellow anguish.
She makes the gears beneath my lamented coating beat with harmonious rhythm.
She makes me alive.
But, if alive means whipping happiness onto this wistful face of mine, if it means looking into the mirror and hearing those funeral bells ring.
If alive means knitting my fate into plush cotton dresses that cinch my waist too tightly, that squish my lungs and pull the strings of my hair until the corners of my lips smile-
