tyrants

sisyphus

the eons of your voice cracks fire across the plains of my back, how my spine has grown trenches for when i need to weather your storms. you bite my nails down to the quick, clutch hard at the webs between my fingers, cup my hands like you wish my flesh was clay: like you want me to be something rounder. softer. the obesity of your grief, its swollen glands torn open and ripe, your smile a lipless gash in the expanse of your spring skin. and i will ask you (gently) to bring me your pain, give to me the tender buds, the well nurtured leather. let me see how you have stitched into your delicate veins the canals of your sorrow, and i will lift you privately into the caves hidden in the horizons of my shoulders.