how tragic that my hands are not embedded
with silk or diamond-encrusted—
even a rose petal or two would work
to make them fitting to run over your skin
as you sleep.
you tell me that you ache, that you want it
so badly, but i think we both know that
i want it so badly, so you can’t help
but feel a little sorry for me.
i suppose that is why i wish my hands
were more than spoiled flesh:
i wish they were something soft to make you want
to fall asleep;
or even something sharp to cut off
all those chunks of your body
that you seem to hate—but i truly love—
just to get you to stop wincing over their sight.
i wish my hands were something more than they are
so i have an excuse to use them on you
like cunning pistols in a Western.