Skimt's Marrow

You love to talk; I, to listen.
You ask for words I cannot speak.
My boundaries are chains that shame
and find the hurt you seek.

Wings that stain the glass,
the walls, the tablecloth—
drawn to light from dark.
I am your moth.

You can’t love without a mirror.
I can’t love without your gaze.
I earn my worth in what I give;
you find yours in someone’s praise.

My eyes on you, but nowhere else:
on the walls and tablecloth,
a flight from light to dark.
I was your moth.