you wouldn’t touch me,

-

denying the intimacy that rotted into your chest

and carved it up like a cave, but

-

you wouldn’t touch me—

left me instead all bones and teeth,

aching for recognition and acknowledgement;

pegged me instead petulant and needy,

begging for some change please, some change please,

bleary-eyed with wheezy yellow breath hot and opaque,

cracked winter hands outstretched and

looking for a name, but

-

you wouldn’t touch me--

-

(and it) left you naked and bruised,

curled up and fetal,

all your pitted limbs drawn up and pocked, every

bone restless and achy beneath your thin skin, soft

and sagging with the weight of indiscretion, caving

in like old fruit; the rot filth stench that crawled from

you was proof.