You are ink on their hands as they touch the babies feet,
Sweet, pink, clean clean clean
You are ink in the mirror, your body is untouched.
Your ink drags low on your back in a ponytail, you touched the boys hand five, ten summers ago and you were a wild animal.
They don't remember you. They have cold, greedy eyes that never rest on your face.
You didn't want to love them anyways.
And then he came, and he looked you straight in the eyes and told you how blue the sky was and how the sun looked.
You realized you were thin and thirsty for the light. Haru took your hand and loved you and cut your hair when it grew too long.
You never tried to choke him in his sleep, and you think that must mean you love him.
You have scars in your brain, the way the bindings cut into god's skin.
The way your eyes look in the mirror.
They're scars of bruises, and your bruises might as well be scars the way they stay with you.
"Are you a spider? Reclusive as the weather?" he asks, not smiling but you see it in his eyes.
"I'm a horse." You say dully, and sometimes you both are very quiet and he rests his face in your neck as you read.
You want to read out loud, but you doubt your own gravel voice, you doubt his love for you and your sour, burning voice, you doubt he would still rest in the crook of your spines tilt.
And he never really liked Lovecraft, anyways.
He gets choked in your hair as he wakes, every once in a while. You wake up to him choking, and you think you must have hurt him with your snake hands, your voice.
Sometimes you think you are both old, and its his time.
That's what keeps you from cutting it all off, as you tear the ink off his neck.
But in the end, nothing stopped you.
And the ground seemed so close, your voice so gruff.
There be those who say that things and places have souls, and there be those who say they have not; I dare not say, myself, but I will tell of The Street