Half Ribbed

those aren’t cigarette burns on your arms
they are holes left behind from my love
I called, and it crawled out from the lining of your skin
you are a section: half ribbed and fragmented   
my love now rots amongst your soiled clothes

you want, without giving. with a burning gun you scar
and destruct; and bury the remains in my eyelids
my arms strain from holding up the blue moon
I cannot dream or lust without its soft exhales
those were never cigarette burn on your arms.