The Book of Kelsey

M10

I. 

His skin was purplish-brown like a decaying Canna Lily.  Sometimes he brought red flowers and they too decayed like lily skin.

Dried bouquets of history dangled from the ceiling, wrapped in rope made from my veins.  Their petals were flesh pulled from my body to show me beautiful things.  On the nightstand sat a cracked and fingerprinted glass of old holy water with remnants of my lips to print its edge.

I have learned to drink it all at once.  I have learned the value of salt around the brass.  I have learned the importance of changing the ghost-sheeted mattress.  I have learned that the flowers are not gifts.

I am laying inside a chalk outline remembering the last position of my body.                                 This is the killing room.

II.

I sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him to come.  When he appeared, I invited him to paint grafitti inside my skull.  I tasted the colors of his paint and was unsure.

At dusk I prayed for cleaners to sanctify my mind.  At dawn, agape again, I was an open-mouth kind of love.  I have always had an appetite for unsophisticated things; it is the part of me most beloved by others.  I waited for him to fill my mouth with the thickness of words.  I am only now learning to speak because he gave me no language for fear.

I have learned to communicate in uncommon ways … like sitting on the edge of the bed with my mouth open … waiting.

III.

In the middle of my chest is a spigot. I turn the knob and flood the floor with melancholy hoping he might slip.  I hope he might somehow know how it feels to lie inside the lines looking up.

He never slips, his feet are made of souls.

IV.

The bed is strewn about with Canna Lilies and dry petal and salt is in my eye.  My mouth is wet with water and old imprints; I am unholy.  The meat of my body is fleshless; I am exposed.  I am cracked like glass and spilling dark water everywhere.  I lay in a bed of rust and Canna Lilies.  He is a pestle mashing me to nothingness.  We are staining the mortar.

This is his killing room             and I am entwined in ghostsheet,       dusted again in chalk.

V. 

I have learned to close my eyes.  I have learned the importance of drinking.  I have learned the efficiency of peeling my own skin.  I have learned the value of emptiness.

I have learned to love death.

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