the hypersensitivity
that quiets
and builds
and leaves you
a defined
and beautiful wreck
that you'd only
share
with me.
though i love
these coveralls
which are mine and mine alone
there is no willow tree
at the end of a fight
you have to cut the tape from my hands
it's so thick
and if it were left to me
it'd probably stay on all night
until my fingers turned
unnatural colors
like wilting flowers
but i don't know
if you will be there for me
to cut away my second skin
kiss my fingertips
like a proper prince
and it makes me scared
to fight at all
i can see her fingerprints
hard evidence to testify
for your clumsiness
her oils rubbed into
the grains of your body
lingering like cheap perfume
deep in the pockets of your jeans
between each thread
a seed of doubt, hate, suspicion
rooting themselves
before you even bother
to wash yourself
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