97.

my palms are cracked
and heavy with music
I have become a shade of myself
we are both to blame

we burned like ice
under my tongue and ripped
the tendons there, but
no one saw the blood

(in fairness, I swallowed it
for months -- no wonder
you were surprised
when I spat it at you)

I will resurrect and bury you
as many times as it takes
to wash these stains
from my sheets

there are open places
and loosing seams
I keep the memories there
where my skin is fraying

but the time has come
to sew up my skin
and pick out the pieces of you
I will send you down the drain

you will stay in the pipes
but I will be clean
and remade