Spiracle

I want the parts of you you only show

To the corner of your bathroom mirror

I want the parts of your hand-grenade heart

That beat slowly with anger and fear

I want the parts of you you only show

To the birds outside your bedroom window

I want the teeth that you lost as a child

That you hide in a box under your pillow

I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing

The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you

And I want your violence, your silent sedation

Your moon eyes, your telescope, morbid fixation

And I want your pyro, your born-again virgin

Your hands on my insides, your fingertips crawling

And I want your Jesus, your suicide mission

Your lips on the microphone, soft disposition

And I want your parties, the shark in your water

The scrapes on your knees and the blood that spills over

And I want your zeroes, your polluted marrow

The sweat on your palms and your surveillance shadow

I want your secrets, your clementine fields

The ropes that you climb up, the parts that won't heal

I want your safe word, your passive resistance

The sickness you foster, your favorite addictions

And I want your nightmares, the ghost in your doorway

Your paralyzed sleep and your-

I want you, butterfly, I want you, sailor

I am your lover and I am your jailor