curves looking right through me

he's a curvature.

geometrically succinct and

everything he does is

measured and made to cut.

he felt like blades under my skin,

carefully carving the muscle from flesh.

he made me hollow, and let

my insides seep out the

hole he cut in my eyelids.

that way he could always see

where my gaze was, he always

blindfolded me, and gazed the other way.

he always blindfolded me with words

and gazed the other way.

so when i finally, out of frustrations

and heated blood, ran out of patience

and time, he decided it was right to show

me his hidden angles.

he drew a line down my body with his

tears and boyish valour, and

he drew the love out of me.

then from above, he cut me with it.

he sliced a line. he carved a ditch

from under my jaw, down my

neck, over the hill of my collar bone,

in between the rise of my breasts.

he dug a rut down my sternum, and

pierced my stomach lining right through.
he did it all with my love, and salt.

he used myself against me.

destroyed my sense of intellect

and purpose, and stole my finger

nails. devoid of anything i called my

purposes i sat inside the softest

pillow of mourning, and

wallowed in my own self disgrace.

he would have taken her hands

and laced them over himself,

he would have let his lips

do the talking, and his eyes

do the looking. i was left

on the floor of the hallway

melting into the wooden floorboards,

but he was lacing himself

through her hair and her skin,

 and when i grew, he stayed stagnant.
my eyelids regenerated and i

found a new future generation to put

my hope in. i found a new sense of

sensibility and a new way to breathe.