spigots and ingots

i strangled the veins in my neck until my face blackened and fell off
but you still knew me anyway by the ink in my skin and the length
of my nails, they matched perfectly to your bloodied back and when
will i feel clean enough to get out from beneath the spigot of regret
and when will my brown hands whiten and stiffen like the most perfect
sculptures that would cup over your ears so that you might hear the sea
where floats the world. a half grain of sand closer and you might fall
into the space between my headboard and pillow, where i kept a dream
too wizened to be called beautiful, too secret to be spoken. you smile
with gold teeth and i pluck an ingot from beneath your tongue but it is
only pyrite, and who is the fool now.


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