this hunger.

a "love" poem.

i reside in the soft curvature
of the palm of his hand,
caged behind calloused fingers
in the junonia shell of his fist.

i used to trace the creases in his palm,
paying careful attention
to that faded love line, worn smooth
by time and erosive currents.

i used revel in the crushing weight
of his fingers, pressing down on me.
I used to find comfort in it,
in the false sense of security.

there was something in the constriction,
the way i was wholly consumed.
it was a soft sort of violence,
like trapping a spider under a bell jar.

i sustained myself on crumbs,
thankful for the scraps he would offer,
what was left of his corroded heart,
the necrotic flesh of a poisoned fruit.

i reside in the breast pocket of his shirt,
amongst the paper scraps and ball point pens,
the lighter for his cigarettes, tangled in the smoke
that weaves itself between the stitching.

i am still crushed by the weight sometimes,
when Narcissus's pool overflows,
and I am drenched in the guilt of his repentance.
"I am not a violent man," he insists.

but he's learned to hold me with two hands,
to loosen his grip, to not sway me away
when i bite down in fear
that he will leave me starved, again.