Changes

I am going to wrap your heart in butcher's paper,
under every fold I will kiss you in ink.
The pen nib will scratch at your fibres, baby,
but it's all right,
Love is Pain.

I am going to paint your lungs in oils:
red ochre, sweet vermillion and cobalt,
paint you a whore,
and let the air be your pimp.

I am going to coat your ribs in chocolate:
deep, dark, and bittersweet as your lips
in a last good-bye.

Your stomach I will let alone, it's perfect,
acidic, clenching, except for the butterflies --
I will tear their violet wings one by one
to cease the endless concerto flutter of love.

I am going to pluck your eyes,
replace them with the pink roses you see through,

The rest, your skin, your face, your bones
I will leave bare and unblanched
a seeding perfection for all the world to view.

I will depart from you broken,
and fulfilled,
Unspoiled and unsullied
save for the cracks on the discerning come to notice.