after the fist fight that left his knuckles
like red wine on fresh-turned dirt.
All this time, and I always wanted to ask
if his blood on your hands
felt some kind of sacred.
I don’t think either of us were ever
any good for him.
Because you loved him bruised,
and I loved him bloody—
I know how it sounds, believe me, and
I have torn through rabbit holes
hunting for a better heart,
but I’ve got a weak spot for broken boys
is my most disgusting feature.
You may not have loved him well,
but at least you loved him halfway whole.
Me? I would have kissed
the broken teeth from his mouth
and kept them all for myself.
I would have cracked open his crème brûlée chest
and eaten out the insides—
hung up his twisted x-rays on my walls
so I could never forget the look of a ruined heart.
I don’t break them myself, you see.
I just go collecting in the aftermath.
Grave robber for the still alive:
I may not kill anyone,
but I have never been afraid
to take what I need