You come to me at
dusk
with the faces of old
lovers
tattooed on your
breasts.
You say they don’t mean a
thing,
and then like
Ariadne
you hand me a ball of
crimson thread
so I can
escape from the mazes
inside.
I don’t trust those shards of
glass
you use for
eyes
or those lips cracked and
bloody
you make your
promises
with.
As you sing me to
sleep,
my head on your
lap like a bird’s
egg,
I feel your
hands
growing into a
cage
around me,
and I am
afraid.