Skin Constellation


Stretched over bone, sagging with waterlike ripples
at the knuckle
tapering at the end, these whitewashed nailbeds
each pink flower buried under the snow
waiting for the cuticles to grow.

These stems, stuck onto my palm like nerve-ridden antennae, easily pierced or broken
the fissures opened with one scrape of metal, or twelve.
This palm is much tougher by far.

Turning its back to the soft-skinned fingers, the frozen nailbeds,
the half-moon break in the first finger
between ripples of knuckle major and knuckle minor.

These constellations on my skin, tiny hairs or pores pooling
with rosebud reminders of weakness.
Touch them.

Slide your stems over mine
Sleep with them curled around you

Memorize these flaws you love
Tear them from my hands and staple them to the walls of your mind
Study them, curate their idiosyncrasies to me

Embellish the bones with your words,
keep me from falling to sorrowful slumber
as your voice is so often wont to do.


Talk at me while I eat

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