It's another Tuesday morning
with my Lazarus condition
and you're staining my sheets
in communion wine and carnival colors.
Our lust is semiautomatic and cherry cola sweet.
I peel my fingerprints away in thin
strips of identity: you use them as bookmarks
and braid them into your hair
after our lovemaking. I light coffee-scented candles
and you blow them out.
You are not nervous when you lie. We
purified water to make up
for our poison, but you are still
rattlesnake beautiful and I never win
I write my redemption with razor blades.