[ I carry my memories in my skin ]

I carry my memories in my skin

if I could inhale a pore

there would be blood and sin

and too much movement

in the evening’s darkening light.



And you could run your teeth

against browning skin and

feel the sinking heat

of a bruise

after banging against

the polish of my confinement,



and I lie still. On the ceiling

I can count four stains

of the seeping, dripping rainwater

and the prick against my flesh

when it reaches my thighs.



My skin can feel cold and heat

and bury your lies

disappearing inside of me

and a hot breath

encoding my ear



Don’t you feel

alright?



Smelling the burn of charred flesh

against rough sheets,

my hands twisted through them

to still myself from being erased.



Stroke your hands. Bury yourself

in my skin. And remember.