Spiracle

I want the parts of you that you only show to the corner of your bathroom mirror
I want the parts of your hand grenade heart that beat slowly with anger and fear
I want the parts of you that you only show to the birds outside your bedroom window
I want the teeth that you lost as a child that you hide in a box under your pillow

I want your quiet, you're screaming and thrashing
The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you
I want your violence, your silent sedation
Your Moon eyes, your telescope, morbid fixation

I want your pyro, your born-again virgin
Your hands on my insides, your fingertips crawling in
I want your Jesus, your suicide mission
Your lips on the microphone, soft disposition

I want your parties, the shark in your water
The scrapes on your knees and the blood that spills over
I want your zeroes, your polluted marrow
The sweat on your palms and the surveillance shadow

I want your secrets, your clementine fields
The ropes that you climb up, the parts that don't heal
I want your safe word, your passive resistance
The sickness you foster, your favourite addictions

I want your nightmares, the ghost in your doorway
Your paralyzed sleep and your
I want you butterfly, I want you sailor
I am your lover and I am your jailor