#8

cut open my chest, crack my ribs and nest yourself into my withering body. 

i will never heal if it means you will stay warm inside. 

my throat is full of dirt but one word from you and i am growing a flower garden from my mouth. 

my fingers have been worked to the bone but i will work the bone to dust typing and deleting and typing and deleting a text to you.

my knees are bruised from praying for you, my love. i kneel upon gravel and beg god to give me a brush of your fingertips against the black and blue of my body. 

when i am put to rest in the earth i think i will be rejoicing. for your feet are now walking atop the same ground i am part of.