Tender This

My breast -
the veins in my breast -
numbered and tender
at the bone.

Beneath a graze of dust,
a lattice of wintered branches,
glaze of snow like dust.

How powdered we grow.
Thick with animal cells -
dessicated, insectoid, skeletal remains;
unmoving, transfixed.

We share fairytales, pyjamaed feet dangling,
laze at memory's bedside,
bones tendered,
breast laticed with veins,
irrelevant, powdered with dust.

I Confess

Your face is a dark mirage,
and I, a sylph of light, shimmer
before the jungle thoughts
where tigers haunt
in dreams and visions.

I own my own reflection,
cast before me,
green swathes upon black,
guilt-framed, and bound by vines.

I fear the creepers' cloying shadows,
fear the bare confession chair
where I gut my heart.