It is snowing outside and I am thinking
how nice it would be if my insides
were as white as the world.
You could walk along my bones
and leave footsteps. Like bread crumbs.
Like morsels of love that I could follow
when I am scared.
Instead if you walk inside of me,
you’ll tread blood into the carpets,
and that’s a mark we’ll never get out.
I don’t want you to be mad at me
for staining everything we’ve built
with the broken parts of me.
Last night you whispered,
you know you can tell me anything.
I wonder if that means I can tell you
about how I would touch your mouth
with my hands until you swallowed them,
just so I could be touching you
all the time.