Moving In

He cuts me open without anesthesia.

Comes into my house under the moonlight

And waits by my bedside until the sunrise,

 

He holds a silver dagger and a touch of gold

Makes an incision from the soft at the nape of my neck

Painting red between my breasts

Over my navel and to my other hairline.

 

He puts all ten fingers inside of me

And opens me up,

Looking for a way to make room for himself,

To make of me a drawer for the things he cannot take home.

 

He tells me a story of a home

Of a family,

Tells me he is here to stay

Inside of me

 

And I will never feel lonely.

 

He kisses my outsides

And caresses my insides

And takes out my organs one by one:

 

A liver here, a kidney there.

My lungs go next,

My stomach and uterus and pancreas.

 

He leaves my heart.

Says he needs it to pump blood through these walls of skeleton and skin.

Says he needs me to keep the house warm for when he crawls into my own frame.

 

It is late by now.

He sings me to sleep with a song I taught him.

Cradles me between his shoulders.

Says tomorrow we will get the plants

And the TV.

 

I wake up in the morning like a virgin after a wedding night,

Wrapped up in the sheets of blood

And alone.

 

Within me

Empty spaces ready to hold

A whole man, a house, a home, and a family.

 

He comes by once a month

Cleans me up

Prepares me for a life

Sets the carpets of red inside of me

And then forgets to move in.