My fingers were beaten grey and gold

the same color of my bruises

that you would prod at

 

You would feed them to me

with spoonfuls of honeyed phrases

they stung like a bee

 

I would get caught up in it

My throat would stick closed

 

Eyes faintly drooped

as if you drug the sun itself down

and pressed me

flat against it

 

There was a heat so painful

 

But, I, like the moon

loved that sun

no matter how much it burned