His hands.
Or are they mine?
Tear at my virtue,
and fondle every vice.
Until what remains is
a lesser version of himself.
His lips.
Taste like redemption—
olive sherbet with
a dash of rum, bought
at the lowest price—
my innocence,
our freedom.
His eyes.
Speak for both of us:
Nothing worthwhile is free;
seldom is it this cheap.
We discarded what god gave us
molding what was left into
Our body.
From two, we made half
Willing decay unto ourselves
Unto each other, gnawing
And clawing
Throwing around bits of
Our soul,
If you can call it as much.
A decorative piece, folded
Stuffed into a box, labeled
“to charity.”
We’ll take it out
and dust it off,
one of these days.
