your body has been cold all day.
if you were dead, i think your skin might
be grey, but i'm not sure.
your body has been silent, still,
sitting there skinning my knees with
jagged fingernails: i will not be afraid
of what happens when you decide
to finally be annoyed with me.
your body has been through the mud,
dragged kicking and screaming,
and the only thing i can think is
maturity means not kicking so hard.
your lungs turn black, your hands
turn hard, your eyes turn back in your head,
and even noisome nuisance television
can't bring you to your senses.
your body has been bruised all day,
and i wonder if i'm the one who
mauled you that way. or was it the
stereotyping of you or this relationship
(i am constantly nagging you! you
are never good enough for me!) that has
finally done away with your motion and warmth.
your face, expressionless, implicates me
in some deep unhappy plot, something our bodies
lying together at night back to back
does nothing to dispell. if you
opened your mouth now to lie to me,
i should be surprised at the action of it.