Quick Navigation EVENTS POETRY GALLERY MULTIMEDIA Open Mic Contact Info Submissions About Matrix

 

(Untitled)


When I said that I
   bruised easily you


would not take me literally:
   drenched in your fictions,


you thought that I
   spoke of my ego.


But I meant just what
   I'd said, that my


veins, aging and brittle,
   would under this pressure


burst.  So that now, as
   you burrow the palms


of your hands into my chest,
   raising your frame high above


me, you leave me these marks.
   Black and blue, they startle


you later, as we examine

   them standing in front 


of your mirror. 

Top

More Kirby

Other Poets