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My silken skinned boy

Ivory soft and porcelain clean

Bare as an eggshell

Supple flesh

Underneath

Perfect sheets

You shouldn't have come

You shouldn't have hidden that lie

Under your slick pink tongue

Oh, the cunning

Lips glisten

You tricked only the flies

With your little lies

Wooing coaxing limbs and lush eyes

Transfix me

Breath of the dead

Voices

Press against

Your sweet disguise

Alone and knowing in your deceit

There are those you didn't see

Dead stories are freed

I have whispered to the travelers

And they have answered me

I am the channel

They use to pass through

You are the page

For the weary to use

Silenced and hushed

In their bones

Longing to voice

The untold

They are the travelers

They are the answerers

In me is a girl in a gown

Drowning fountain veins

Marble crushed

Bone into bone

Pink cut birthday cake

Left to spoil on a plate

She deserved better

As she drowned in her fear

Now she writes lyrics

Of songs you can't hear

Oh my parched boy

Your lips

Have grown together

Silent as the authors

With their torture and joy

Gone are your bones

Thoughts, moans, and breath

But your body grows pages

Fetid and fresh

Will you write your own story

On the folds of your flesh

I am the channel

They use to pass through

You are the page

For the weary to use