You are the only one that makes me feel truly naked, I
burn and bleed and wink at these dead scrolls that
lie across my hood, strapped on with sinew twine.
Deepest truths are often hidden beneath pale lips and
not until something's said are they finally known
like black beetles; shining carapaces vibrating with pulse.
A life that you helped take, waste and wring out to dry
shriveled and whitened, bleached and boned,
gutted and hung
like crustacean pearls on a guitar string.