Spiracle

I want the parts of you that you only show to the corner of your bathroom mirror

I want the parts of your hand grenade heart that beat slowly with anger and fear

I want the parts of you that you only show to the birds outside your bedroom window

I want the teeth that you lost as a child that you hide in a box under your pillow

I want your quiet, you're screaming and thrashing

The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you

I want your violence, your silent sedation

Your Moon eyes, your telescope, morbid fixation

I want your pyro, your born-again virgin

Your hands on my insides, your fingertips crawling in

I want your Jesus, your suicide mission

Your lips on the microphone, soft disposition

I want your parties, the shark in your water

The scrapes on your knees and the blood that spills over

I want your zeroes, your polluted marrow

The sweat on your palms and the surveillance shadow

I want your secrets, your clementine fields

The ropes that you climb up, the parts that don't heal

I want your safe word, your passive resistance

The sickness you foster, your favourite addictions

I want your nightmares, the ghost in your doorway

Your paralyzed sleep and your

I want you butterfly, I want you sailor

I am your lover and I am your jailor