every day
for a week
i longed for our hands.
you know this story well. you wrote it with me, smiling.
you let me believe.
and, o!
what great sorrow does imagination bring,
lover.
not lover.
just friend.
isn't it wonderful,
(our eyes meeting each other,
my lips moving in an attempt to seduce,
my smitten heart,
my crystal tears)
isn't it wonderful, lover?
not lover.
you say so many things
but you are lying.
isn't it wonderful?
i wonder,
what is paradise like?
i think it might be you on your thrown
and me kneeling on the ground,
collecting every grape vine you throw when you finish
the grapes,
and braiding them together
and cutting my hands up
and making a noose
and dying of a broken heart.
watch, lover—
not lover—
as i hang there.
watch, lover—
not lover—
i bet you feel stupid.
my limbs sway limply in the breeze
and you can smell my blood on the wind.
it doesn't bother you
until my head stays hanging
and my body falls to the grass.
i am not the first in your forest.
i am not the last in your forest.
i know these woods.
i've set them afire too many times.
i have my own in my backyard.
but for you,
lover,
i burned it down. and i feel as if
you want me to do the same here.
for you,
majesty,
i shall chop myself down to make a table.
i shall set myself on fire to warm you.
i shall throw myself away to warm you.
i shall kill myself to warm you.
— for when you never come around.
