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
Éloa 
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