Yours

I’m sorry

But I have broken glass inside,

And the young bud that you want to plant,

Will get cut terribly, trying to grow,

And your beautiful scarred fingers

Will be swept clean ugly,

And I worship the knots and scabs

And rough spots of your rough palms.

You see mine are empty,

No warmth, vanishing lines,

And your eyes are the bonfires

On which I’m trying to warm my soul

And scar my arms

So that they appear beautiful like yours.

These shattered beats

Are all that I can offer

To the shrine inside your ribs,

These ugly smooth and cold hands

To the home of your hands,

These corpse empty eyes

To the living furnace of yours

So if you’ll have me, my dear,

Whatever warmth I can scavenge inside,

Not hellfire;

Whatever warm breath

Whatever that’s not broken glass,

All of that’s yours.