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A robe that slips slow down the shoulders
A smile that must not be hitched nor restrained
I allow myself to be barefoot in your house.
My neglected fears that accompany me like stretchmarks.
I left my belly bare as I entered the room
And I prayed that you would not see it.
My mind, the aging photographer, snapshot in one room for years.
Silent screaming bedroom plastered in deep ruby.
No furniture or decoration except myself.
And still, someone else taking the shot.
Once, you told me:
If I am shattered, you would pick up the pieces while barefoot
The shards of glass drawing blood from your soles will be our glue
All just to piece me back together again.
How sad I think that is.
How much I fool you into thinking
that the wounds were worth it
How much you wanted me
to feel your embrace that you
would open your skin and welcome me in.
That is to say, love is a trait of yours
that I don't want to fester into chance,
only by choice.
A touch that is more devious than sin must be selflessness.
Then, is that why you have held me so many times?
Even pretending there is no problem with the latter
I could never bear to see you scar.
Could you lock this up for me?
Maybe then, it could be for us instead.