In the Bedroom

I long to hold your arteries
and cradle your veins
To carry blood from your barren core
to your desperate limbs.
I long to leave pieces of me on your mattress,
my stain you could not forget.
I long to suck oxygen from your gray lungs
that held that devilish voice, dirty
like the dive bars where I would find
pieces of you—needles draped
from your beautiful arms.
Instead I discovered pieces of you sprinkled
on the mattress like bits of brain in starless corners.
And like birds I wept at the morning
shining on your corroded heartbreak.
Atop your stone tomb mattress
I placed your palm, cold like death
to the blood pulsing through my temple.
I traced my fingertips along your tracks.
Those beautiful arms black with contempt,
the bile and venom and hatred spilling
from your veins.

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About Anna Paige

Anna Paige is a writer, poet, and photographer advocating for live music culture, visual and performance arts, and the creative class in Montana through writing. More >>