Somehow on the fragmented shore you stand
with pick and shovel and
I can see the questions in your eyes diluting the blue
like oil on ocean.

How could I smooth our jagged edges when your hands were all
hooks and razor blades?
How could you trace the scars on my skin and the places you planned
to plant new ones?
The pale treasure map became my wrist
dotted with palm trees and dead ends
which you followed up my arm, across my shoulder, down the slope of my breast until—

X marks the spot.

There was no way for me to smooth our jagged edges when
my chest lay opened like a long-lost treasure.
How could you pillage my body and set sail to fly when
it was my heart in small pieces that served as your gold?