Pieces

There are times when the darkness
feels endless
sidewalks tend to lead into fog
disguising what is treacherous, waiting
wanting whatever is being offered up as sacrifice
inside a wrist
peak of collarbone
jutting hips
hands in this space are forever coiling around
each curving piece
regard for ownership left under the tree roots
that envelop the wanderer
words taste syrupy, sickly, fractured
each line
no matter its origin
are crafted into promises
by the severed ears that perhaps once
belonged to the discarded hourglass
left begging in the inky dampness
mouth sewn shut around her longing
swollen tongue choking silence
eyes over compensate
betraying what could never be private
nauseous aching of beating tissue
shameful wanting
created what would be her murder