Lock and key

You, too, were the blood
in my shower, leaking
into the toes I used
to press into the sand
on your back.
I peeled your scales
and left you gasping;
I smoked your breath.
You were not
my sweet bee keeper,
I was not your rib:
tangling words together,
painfully tender
and meant to be
a dig in us
that was deeper
than the pool in the bottom
of a wine glass.
I sank lower
than the Catholic girls
and Christian boys
I used to fuck
while they made love
to me,
only appearing
in black and white
but shrunk into a corner -
pushed aside
by colored locks
and keys that fit
inside me.
My post secret wishes
it could be my rooftop
from which we plunged
delightedly,
bellies bursting with cinnamon
and hot chocolate,
but when we arrived
beneath hardened hearts
we tasted something different.
I miss the way
you never ash your cigarettes,
letting burnt storm clouds
fill your eyes,
drops of blood on bed sheets,
and my pillow-you
just isn't good enough.
The full weight
of your skin on mine
makes room next to
my heart [or instead of it]
but I could spend my life
wandering the length
of your body every morning.
My lips will bleed until
they crack and fall,
free of you,
into one fistful of
chocolate-covered entropy
and six feet beneath
your sordid tongues
in which I made my home,
and when worms
and beetles crawl
between my ribs
and thighs,
you'll be jealous of them.

Thai-Lynne Lavallee-McLean writes from home while caring for her three children. Part-time, she is working on her Bachelor of Arts degree with a Major in English. Her work has appeared at Dodging the Rain, Anti-Heroin Chic, Borrowed Solace, and in Zimbell House Publishing’s Anthology, River Tales.