You don't have to bed me down
in the dense capillaries of your heart.
I'll be fine
in the cranial castle of your skull
where I can thread myself
through a clenched jaw -
wringing dizzying, queasy panic
from a threatened throat.
Where I can siphon sight from one eye,
dedicate it to its opposite,
and let cataclysmic rivalry
blind them both.
No, you don't have to bed me down
in the catastrophically constricted capillaries
of your poor, miserly heart.
I'll just crash on the futon,
and in the morning, I'll go.
A Flipside poem for Open Link Night at dVerse.