You came to me with the effortless
swagger of an arms dealer.
You lifted me up and polished
my brass knuckles. I laughed,
at the blood on your boots.
It hadn't even dried yet.
Bruised, bloodied and bent at awkward angles,
I ran. I would have gotten away too,
if my mouth hadn't caught on
a piece of barbed wire.
I have gunpowder on my lips
and I feel the cold steel
click against my molars.
Stop me, before my teeth
become a necklace.
Stop these words from ripping
through my throat, exposing
and showering our audience with what
normally hides behind skin, bones, and lipstick.
Instead, crack your ribs, my love,
and show me where it hurts.
I'll show you the way my grenade ticks
right after you pulled the pin.
Let me feel the heat
from the napalm you call
a soul. Let it flush my skin
like some messed up rouge. Don't you know?
Agent Orange is the new black.
