Dirty Hair

Your bony fingers play my rib cage like a lyre
Your violence is so pretty
I am at such a loss
such a loss for words
and my dirty hair shows that I have fallen
from the grace of the silver deity
Why are dead birds falling out of your ceiling?
I want to shed red onto your carpet
I want to rip out my veins and sew a blanket with them
to keep you warm
or just to keep you
who are you?
That is a question for myself
to hold and cradle like a baby