I swear my body rearranges itself
whenever he is near—
organs twisting like obedient dogs,
ribs widening as if to make space
for the violence of wanting.

I don’t mean to be such a wretched thing.
But every time he looks at me
something under my skin convulses—
a slick, animal tremor,
as though my heart is trying to tear its way out
and crawl to him on wretched hands.

My love is not pretty.
It is surgical.
It is a morgue-light directness
that strips me down to cartilage.
I wish I could love him softly,
in a way that doesn’t involve
the disassembly of my own anatomy.

But affection in me
is always an autopsy—
the chest split wide,
the heart offered up raw and trembling,
proof I still know how to feel.

I don’t want to be this way—
But loving him
makes my body too honest,
and honesty in me
is always grotesque,
always slick with the parts
I’d rather keep buried.

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𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories

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