she steals bodies for a living,
looking for a place to call her own
as she lets flowers die inside your eyes.
the swollen skin she tore open is
shredded paper, leaking Tupperware,
soiled napkins, wads of toilet paper.
she sits on your heart, a throne
made up of feathers and stardust.
it beats beneath her until it bursts.
you build yourself back up with bones,
rotting flesh and empty hands.
a bed has been made in your throat.
you shove a toothbrush as far
down as it will go, looking longingly
for her silhouette in the toilet water.
numbers grace the air around you,
dancing in the sky like fairies.
they are not beautiful. they do not have wings.
these creatures have claws that rip
open your mouth and fangs that press
against your lips.
they have a slumber party in your belly,
a party balloon swelling and protruding
until you are forcibly deflating.
the bathroom floor has never tasted
as good as it does after days
without food or water.
she is a blanket fort with flashlight
lamps, a fireplace without wood.
she is a hand held in the dark.
you are a lost dog, soaking wet from
the rain. you are a ladybug, upside
down in a puddle. you are a dying star.
she pulls the covers up over her body.
she pulls the covers up over your body.
but she will not let you get into bed.