Counting ribs in the night
little notches from silly fights
the framework for things said in spite
we face our walls to sleep at night
Too scared to say what’s on my mind
the way you make up things to find
my inner sinner, you speculate,
you’re a saint to tolerate
my inferiority like a bitten lip,
holding me down between sips
when you say you love who I am
you’re full of shit, a martyred man
Kiss me on the surface, bleeding
your teeth always out, feeding
I wear the skin you weave for me
stretched thin against the knees
tethered to you by my neck
you nestle in this little wreck
uprooting all the things I know,
I’m the champion of letting go.
The art of spilling over 