I want to rub honey 
into your wounds and 
stitch them shut with strands 
of my hair. The freckles on 
your shoulder blades form 
a constellation and what I 
would give to travel through 
your solar system. Your 
heart is a planet whose surface 
is too hot for landing. You 
are a playground and I am 
a child sliding down the
small of your back. I 
am a sailor lost at 
sea and your skin is The 
Bermuda Triangle. At 
night I lay my head on 
your chest and you 
breathe in waves. There is 
an ocean inside of you and 
you’ve got shipwrecks along
your spine and I will 
build a lighthouse inside of 
you to guide the rest home. 
Before bed I draw pictures
in the trench of your
backbone and have you guess.
I trace the shape of an Elephant 
because spiritually they are 
known to ward off nightmares.
Yet you still scream in your 
sleep and I can’t wake 
you so I sit on the floor 
of the shower until you 
wake yourself. Your bones
are so fragile as I
hold you in the palms of 
my hands like a fallen 
baby bird. You’ve 
got gashes on your 
cheekbones from your 
father but your body is a
canvas and your sadness 
comes in so many 
shades of blue. You remind 
me of all the ways 
a soul can bruise.