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 drink
purified water to make up
for our poison, but you are still
rattlesnake beautiful and I never win
at poker.

I write my redemption with razor blades.