Anchored.

I’m rare; be nice to me.
Paint me with honey tones –
acrylic paint thick and peeling, second skin.
Paint me whilst you’ve got me on my knee’s,
i’ll drink as though you were cough syrup
and my lungs riddled with homesick.

I should start a tally
for the infinitesimal heart attacks
(like splinters in my hips) each time
my phone reminds me you aren’t here.
“Active”. A fucking ghost.
I feel you like strings tied about
the loop of your belt, and sewn through
the skin on my inner thighs.
Deep enough to anchor.

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