You place a chain on my neck and swing me round like a prizefighter weathered and polished, placed in your pocket.
Take what you need and leave the rest on the stoop.
I’m a pillow you need when your bed is broken.
My body is a temple.
You fool around and sell our stories where I can see them and I’m not a part of anything you learn.
I’m a closet coat in a bag in your chest; you’re saving me for the winter in case you can’t afford a new one.
You say I’m the wish you spoke when your heart was broke.
When I came and said your name in love and adoration you shed your skin.
My body is a temple.
My body is a temple.
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