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