Slouched in a chair, pen stained,
I am a pile of laundry and my creases are lead
bending my spine
back to you,

reluctantly. I smile
while the radiator grinds my heart cold.

Audio cassettes record the sound of me
not wanting to look at you
like that,
reel-to-reel, my eyes are metal
and you are a magnet --

I feel heavy today,
but you still pull me near.
We are electrons, you see,

you put a spin on my bones
and my crumpled joints, scraping their way out
of skin, peach tinted and grated,
raw,

your sharp teeth make it hard to climb
up your cheeks
and rest there, right on the curve, near those scruffy eyebrows
and daily nose bleeds.
I watch you from across the room,
holding hands that are not mine.

My pupils are wrapped in green and grow,
balloon-sized.