seamstress

coarse fibers unravel – we are a light pink ball gown 

hacked at the hem; my silk metamorphoses into 

moth-eaten yarn underneath your fingertips. we are 

burning up, rosy mesh swirling like melted bubblegum; 

layers upon layers of fabric writhe on our hands 

like a snake’s nest, embroidered eyes narrowing 

as forked tongues unfurl. the familiarity of our fighting 

is almost comfortable –  but when your eyes

peer into mine, satin waterfalls freeze; i rot 

like sweet plum skins under your sweltering 

gaze. my white tongue waltzes into a knot;

i take on the form of tongue-tied voodoo doll, 

you are corrupted puppeteer, frayed wires pulling at

heartstrings and tangled limbs alike. in the eye of the 

storm we attempt to weave ourselves whole again, 

vomiting apologies we don’t mean; you defend 

yourself vehemently as i lick my injured skin;

power over me calms you so i let you have it.

in the dark of the night, we are koi fish swimming

in spoiled ink; the names of other girls bloom

like marigolds in your mouth; i pray you choke

on the petals. fabric splits; secrets shoved in

heavy pockets, zip ties coiled on your lips. you see me

only sometimes but always through a scratched keyhole. 

an incomplete list of what we are: 

toxic, tempting, textiles, tornados,

lackluster topaz bursting at the seams.

you do not love me, you love

the seamstress i can be for you.

but i have no bruises to show. 

shrapnel flying,

i sink my teeth into our

double-stitched seam;

your threads can learn to mend themselves.