motion. | completed

minus forty-one

alter pitches and traverse skin
your warm hand in mine and
i touch your wretched sins
calloused rope ties you up in
a pretty little present and
i pulled it off so many times,
because you weren't ready to be
a gift to god.

and her face was a thousand
metaphors and her eyes projections
of the past and her lips were cut open
by crystal silence

your face was a soul in the mirror
and i pick out a smile and hold it
up, hoping it's clearer. hoping you'll
see beauty in yourself rather than
a billion stars of nothing.

and her voice a symphony of doubt
and her heartbeat drums of
'are you okay? you're not okay.'
and my lips saying 'i am. i am.'
but my own heartbeat is a tiny
cymbal tapping out 'i'm not'.