We are in the brier bush again, ribbons of scratches running
like miniature rivers along our flesh, dripping tiny drops of blood
into the soil; I think we must keep these bushes alive
with all the offerings we make to it. Your mother would be furious
but I don’t mind; I taste the sweet tang of youth on your lips and
I am hungry for more of it, all of it - every lick of it that’s buried inside your chest.
We are covered in dirt and bruises shaped like each other’s mouths.
We come to in the afternoon sun, our bodies warm
to the touch; we tell each other the bushes ruined our clothes
but we know the truth - the tears are from starving hands digging
their fingers into the first real meal they’ve touched in weeks.
We pour lemonade into tall glasses and change into something
less incriminating for when your family gets home, turn on the TV
and watch reruns of shows we’ve never seen before.
When no one is looking we are monsters set on devouring each other whole.
While you sleep, my fingertips climb the ladders of your ribs, searching
for the weak spot where I can plant my fingers like seeds
and get in close to your heart with my roots;
crack the bones apart to make enough space for me to crawl inside,
build a nest out of these scraps of a lifetime we’ve spent together.
Somewhere in the blood and the debris, we will find that comfort
we are both looking for in each other.
Let me build a fire in your ribs and keep us both warm.