I found a martyr in
my bed,

blessed with eyes
full of sunflower
petals and a heart
full of charcoal

withering in my
hands and leaving
welts where he’d
held me with his
demi-god strength.

there was fire in his
lungs, decorated with
rage like thunder and
the gentle ignorance
of the blessed.

skin of spiderwebs;
he’d weaved a world
out of words and art.

organic, eyes of lands
and lakes bled over
my knees and begged
for my salvation

and I collapsed at
his feet, new again.