(Post-Obsessionism)

so maybe I'm a catalyst of cures or
it could be that this girl is just a twist on frankincense and myrrh
but my skin is pale and made of wax and if
you hold me to the sky I'll fall right back like
birds into life or stirs into stills
yet I could change like the slope of an O
or the curve of you knuckles into my kiss and your bliss and the
yes, no, oh! just breath you're too attracted to being
and existing or keeping you motivations on track
but what I wanted in you was just that
with the self-obsession so I wouldn't have to and the
green in your sweater or the stripe of your shirt
and the way you speak like your cursed by your visions
that wrap you up all stagnant in static that
made you try to sing in Braille when all you wanted was
just to curl your toes into the soles of my feet so
you could be warmer or given another try
and would it make you happy to trace the curves of my spine and the
notch in my wrist or would you find it annoying like
the gap between my teeth or the freckle on my breast that didn't
mean you weren't charmed by them anyway
I was just new in my unapologetic views and when
the night was over I'd send you a new bruise to hold and stand by
when you had begun to realize I was the daughter of subconscious and irrelevance
that took up life in the abandonment of truth in production and seduction
and all the things you wish there was to run around in you