Have I ever told you

That I practice bondage

with serpent tongues

of crime scene tape, unwinding, like

Medusa coils and Rapunzelline sighs?

That between the malnourished gaps of my limbs

springs a wintry ghost town,

untouched for decades as the slopy shoulders

of slumbering volcanoes,

dormant in the ceasefire of their molten rage?

That I am a page,

torn from the good book;

the analogy of a most celibate decay

celebrating the anniversary of my molestation

without the orgasming symphony of dissonant champagne flutes,

without the recursive fanfare?

That I am saving the dregs of my bones for better days?

That your slithering fingers strain my umbilical cord,

a hollow tunnel,

a marionette piano wire taut to tautness,

pulled apart as masts of ships in bottles?

That you could burn my limbs with lightness

and I would crawl on my belly

to resurrect the splinters of your Eden?

Endless Ecstasy

caught in the crossfire

of an armistice