I spat out mountains to feed you truths
as you sat next to me like a hideaway bed,
taking no claim to your sins.

Motel room back alleyway pounding pavements,
winding your fingers up nightly like a broken clock
shoving your face into her private dirt.

I've watched you come up for air
more times than I can count,
Though still you swear that intimacy is usually vicious,
and love doesn't come cheap.

Wincing, filled with salt and codeine,
my bloated neck begs to differ.

You grew thorns where I tried to give you roses.

08/05/2015

Posted on 08/05/2015
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