She calls my arms a crime scene,
licks the blood from my chest,
then listens to the thumping
beneath it.

Yes, she knows what these
hands have done.

She knows I’ve poked holes in the
water of every bed I’ve ever slept in,
knows what my heart looks
like when it’s tired;
the pastel houses lining the streets.
The lipstick shades of the
bored housewives with their
ambrosia salads, stuffing the
mouth of pain until it can’t say their names anymore.

She loves me this many bodies-worth.
She loves me this many mountains.
She stretches across the room,
forgives me without blinking.