Decolonize my skin.
Hold back your soft honey soldiers
From the crook in my neck where
The tiny hairs stand up too tall.
You stormed in hungry, asking for bread.
I ran out of yeast. I only have eggs.
The open windows are airing
out the kitchen, there is no floor.
The stairs only go downwards.
You, A dried date. Soft like creamed honey.
I bit too hard into the pit inside you.
Me, now gap-toothed, couldn’t get it out.
I thought I would be the one to get it out. Why didn’t it come out? I am not the finger bunnies on the wall. You’ve always liked those. I’ve got skin.
I’ve got desperate suede to cry on and my green gown you gave me.
A champagne glass filled with almond milk.
How do I ask how you are when the only word my mouth can now make is moaning? I swear the hydrangeas flinched.
Four quarters on a spit, nothing.
Open my body like a baptist church and I’ll feel nothing.
I’ve learned to kiss with one eye open,
To let hymns lurch from my throats every time you say my name,
To say no no no and turn on the trickle shower
And peel you off my body like you were my own skin. Get your soldiers out.
I’m sorry, but you left first.