if I traced my fingertips
over your jagged jaw
and across your rosebud lips
how many lied would build
like dirt beneath my fingernails
how far can you trip
over peoples promises
before your skin pales
and the red sea splits
across the knuckles
of your buckled fists
how long till the smoke
from your broke ribcage
slices open your pupils
and rips out each page
from the files in your gut
will your hair ever admit
to your cracking scalp
the things it overheard you thinking
and the fantasies you had been drinking
over melted ice
