Thread: The Nude

The Nude

I am with you in the room where I sleep,
in particles, in wooden boxes. Packed to the brim. Shifting.
You touch them and carve: I don’t want you with nails in your head.
I’m cluttered. I wish your hands were in your pockets. Just us. Just stripped.
On the floor like rugs, watching the walls of an empty room
until it feels like we’re moving.

You are labeling my boxes: pieces.
They are dust and they’ll break on your skin. I’m a catalyst here.
You’re kissing my bare elbows, sucking my open scars. Tiny windows.
An instant of cities all over me. You say you’d like to wake up everywhere.

Tumbling boxes. I’m watching them spill like ocean.
Us in a biosphere of dirty needles. My father’s shirt unraveled around my neck.
My cities making words. Bellow. Burst. Be. Don’t let them touch you.
My best friend’s ashes avalanching from my mouth.
This floor is me. This is why I tremble. This is where you want
to sleep.

You are taking in debris.
Your face is unexpressed when you look at my undone body.
Timid hands. Loose particles. Unplugging nails from my head.
Just us. You ask me how it feels to keep suicide in packaging material
and why I’m all over the floor.

This room isn’t breathing. There are no lights.
I have pictures multiplying on my walls. Rolling stamps.
The corners are graffiti chants: let me out, open your mouth. Something under our feet
is screaming at thunder. You ask
if you can touch me.