XX

Something Borrowed, Something Bruised

I want a love I cannot break,

one that survives the centrifuge.

Even if I hurl it at the moon,

even if I carve it into my femur,

it doesn’t scatter like particulate matter.

I want a love that crawls from the wreckage,

calcified and radioactive.

That smiles with blood in it’s teeth,

that knows what I did to the last one,

and stays anyway.

I want a love that ferments in the dark,

gilded with carrion grace.

A love that calls my collapse a resurrection,

and keeps fresh roses on my grave.

That understands: even ruins deserve reverence.

Dorothea Blythe