white hot: a poem

of the way you made me
of the way I think,
of my sight, sound,
and propensity.

In my heart I know it’s all nonsense,
hiding in embarrassment
should be reserved for something
worse than passion.

but the skin is thick and the body more so.
muscle, bone, sinew, humor
I’m not strong enough,
long enough,
to reach all the way through

so my flesh dies
suffocated nerve endings forgetting to live
even as my heart burns white, just past,
my bones are black with the world’s infection.

and I can see only two solutions:
find a way to wake those nerves again
or let all my flesh fall away
until the burning center is all that’s left.



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