Hairpins in the gaps between
my teeth,
developing nightfog turns my
hunger pains translucent and you
bite everything out of me which is clean,
let the dust collect upon the palms
upturned. These are the lines we
crossed.
And will you not be coming around any longer,
and will it be that even as my bones fade in and out of
shadow and light,
your fingers still curl around the bloodstains
in my feverthoughts
of the little things we killed
and left broken of flesh
dangling from the ache in our mouths
laid down at one another’s feet.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 