There would be no space left
If the kisses inside my mouth turn into ink
And the scratches on my tongue snake into shapes,
The landscape of the skin I wear would change
To the point I’ll be a canyon of misspells.
Ankles shackled in promises bloom bruises
And the strings of vows would push my ribs apart,
Another whispered vowel pilling on, weightless,
To the unfinished story I breathe out as recite.
Confessions would mare the hands like pinprick freckles
And charts, horribly square, tattoo my thoughtful temples,
What a relief I find in thinking words leave no eroding
For I would have no space left free of scars.