Saturday, September 3, 2011

Writing Bits

When I think about your eyes
exposed to the bare flesh of another,
my stomach churns into tangled knots.
I use my fingers to untie them
(same fingers with which I touch
your skin alone)
but they return, tight.
You mark your territory on pretty doves,
aim your metaphorical gun at them,
but the only one left bleeding red
is this brown headed robin.
I want to horde your eyes selfishly
so their lenses reflect only images of me,
want to be the only one
covered in your brand name.

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