my ankles end in angles

perfect points like a ballerina

i used to stroke your hair

run my paper thin nails along your scalp

press my dry lips to your forehead

and wear the oil from your skin like chapstick

You never stopped making those sweet little noises

crooning and cooing at my softest touch

so i never noticed as my feet fell away




i made my home in You

nestled my fingers in your hair

learned to live on the labored beating of your battered heart

i sipped the beads of sweat from your brow like dew

bathed in your scent like perfume

turned my back to your window

as the sun streamed in through the broken blinds that we kept closed

i didn’t feel it

the way my mutilated legs could no longer hold me steady

until i woke up in your bed without You

You inhaled me, pulled my face to your chest

and kept one hand to my back

to guide my spine like a trellis

i really didn’t feel it

when You pruned the toes from my feet, the feet from my ankles

but as i wither here in my garden of rotting food,

hair set loose like Spanish moss, skin sprouting lichen

i can’t help but wonder if roots might bloom in their place

but the longer i lay here the more i wonder

was it You who held the shears behind my back

or were my fingers intertwined with yours?