Poetry Writing

ceramic skin

You had a penchant for breaking plates
when things got tough, you said.

Now remember staring across at me, through
the hope of candlelight, cradling promises
across to me on your lips.
You look like porcelain. milky skin;
soft. white. clean.

Now remember laying in my bed,
never quite believing I was real, you said.
Your tongue marbleized, crystallizing
around mine, melding me to you in
the most beautifully cruel way.

Now remember when your digital
secrets found me, even as my love
grew. Sharper than actions are words.
Sharper than the needs shaped like you
lodged into my ceramic skin.

Even then you were graduating to breaking porcelain dolls;
your specialty changing from plates to people.

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