If our bodies were crash test dummies I’d never want our car
to stop running into that tree.
Your mouth is an apple resting on a silver platter with a paring
knife set beside it like an open hand. Please let me slice into you.
Last year I visited Germany and the men on the street kept calling
me liebling; some of them wanted to fuck me up against the wall
with my nails across their back. The shy ones wanted to take me home
and show me all their poems.
Love, I told them, I’m no Sylvia Plath, but I’ll do the best I can.
The shadows from your skin are dripping out from between your legs
and staining me with your ink.
Whenever I do the dishes
I’m really trying to break your heart,
but I can never scrub hard enough to crack them in two.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was an alcoholic,
but he was a damn good one at that. We like the ruined ones
because we see ourselves in them.
My little liebling, come kiss me.
I’ve been waiting all night for your mouth.