I want to be an open wound on your back,
like an imperfect slash on your perfect canvas.

A wound that burns you,
that fills with the hair you lose,
with the lint from your sheets,
with the touch of your other people’s hugs.

A wound on the reverse of your body,
of your life right-side up.

A wound in the spines of your books.

A wound behind your mirrors.

A wound full of my nude photos.

I want to be for you: your deep, secret wound.

So I can give you wings any day.

Or to become your sleepless scar.