Your fingers like lit shadow puppets
Draw my gaze from the shiv
That has repossessed your tongue
Between the sheets we hemorrhage
Two dejected boats slipping beneath
A nitrogen-rich border into the bowels
Of an unwitting and uncompromising sea
I can feel the tug of our conjoined anchors
The slow death of an inarticulate drowning
We are not ready to exchange definitive needs
We are not ready to retract furious limbs
Why must you address me in third person?
She is a penitentiary that holds without citation
She is a soul-threading parasite with a taste for meat
She is me but you don’t have the gall to say it
So you insinuate through euphemism
I suffer your silences and your carefully worded parables
Knowing that I lack the necessity to stake my claim
Knowing that you are not better for knowing me
Knowing that I have made you brittle and infirm
How is it that I in living have become
The antithesis for life?
Is my weight more than Atlas can bare?
Do my footsteps incite thunder?
Or do I sink into a daily grave
Roots so vast and deep that they leave
No space for dual occupancy?