don’t marry me

Remake me

out of clay and spit and lust

mold my heart to withstand

grief and fault lines

split apart my atoms and rebuild

those faulty genes who gnash to destroy

don’t marry me

submerge me

in an ocean where I’ll come to life

whole and unharmed, revoking regret

until bloodied knuckles are scar free

and breakage will turn to you and say

yes, love doesn’t have to spread poison

hurricane’s collapse, Babel’s echo

for she is no longer in pieces

for she is no longer in pieces

2 Replies to “Fault line”

  1. In my mind’s ear I hear a refrain, Neil Young, searching for a heart of gold. And now I think that a love that does not spread poison would be close enough, and without the heaviness of gold.

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