If we plant things maybe I can atone for it

I change my hair with the wind.
And today it is blue because no other colour
will do, it is staining the wrinkles joins of my fingers
as though it refuses to let me go.
It is carved into my thighs in the shape of lies
once told, never forgotten.
Halves of my arms are brown
from pulling and lifting and climbing
for three days straight, the kind of work
I used to hate. Only now,
I bathe in the bruises and marks
left behind, these days are mine.

Oh

(Sometimes I am reluctant to post a poem because I worry about people I know reading it and that’s when I make myself, because this isn’t for those people.)
I have tried very hard
not to write poems about your hair,
curls to knot my fingers in.
Or use the same cliché’s about
eyes so blue I could drown in them.
And as much as I’d like,
I worry about the practicality of
advertising the absolutely perfect fit
of your hands around my throat.
But it hurts my chest to imagine you
and I get dizzy when your mouth covers me,
smothers me, perfection. Chemically
compatible, maybe, could be.
There is safety in the hollow
where your neck bends, for
both of us.