Ghost Paint

I want the body that
does not repeat itself
into sweat-soaked pillows.
Every dream, the same
imaginary knife imitating
your tongue. Remember my
small girl body in your
lap, the way everything
between us turned inwards.
You promised that this
unraveling was necessary,
the way you massaged my
arm when I played the
guitar. At home, I resented
the fact of us & the way
that guitar lessons made
my wardrobe unrecognizable.
Every sweater’s death-
stitch was a small girl
protesting your vodka
mouth. You said
the body that confesses
is an enemy. Tell me,
in heaven, that there are
pillows to house the
secrets of the dead.

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