Swallowing Swords

I bend like a contortionist
under your gaze. We could swing
higher than trapeze artists
and paint stripes on our tent skin –
one for every scar we peel off.

I fall in love fifty times
a day, and you are the one
I have chosen between these
two sunrises. I will create
a fire in us both, if you let me.
We could breathe it and juggle it,
and set hoops aflame
for lesser lovers to admire.

Let yourself crash into me.
Scratch me like a pen on paper –
write a curse on my skin.
Hurt me and make me
whole. Make me
yours. Take me in your
lion teeth and throw me
against the tamer’s chair. 

I would walk on hot embers
and swallow swords
if it would help you
see me
standing
here.