i am a tapestry.
you weave me with silk tongue and
silver backbreath, your windows washed
with pretty anesthetics which
tell me that i've lasted too long
in this sallow.

but oh, i wished for you.
how i wished for you,
and yet i came for you.

wanting from this wanton prison,
wanting to be white washed, and
given to the intricate details
of which i would never fit.

no, i would never be a wicker basket,
woven into your perfect my-name-is-sally-
this-is-my-paper-doll-named-brian mode.

no, i would never be cross stitched
into the two point five children:
those embryos without limbs or flesh.

oh, but i wished for you.
how i wished for you,
and yet i came for you.

i came for you
with pools of lithium.
retina to retina, you stared point blank
with an atom bomb at your heels;
stared deep into the
recesses of my WD-40, MK 47 darkness.
and yet, I stare back. resolved,

bitten, broken,
yet still here,
yet still, staring:
glacier will set,
set, tombstone.
embellished,
and undone.

02/19/2009

Author's Note: And yet, now, you get to own this.

Posted on 02/20/2009
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe