They come at me
Slowly and tenderly they creep
Along the vastness of my skin
Dewy moist and soft
They say sweet things
With whispered tones
And then with strong arms
And tight hands
They pull forth their axes
Their chisels
Their hammers
Their wrenches
And set to long deep hot work
The climatic labor of tearing me apart
Piece by piece
Each bit quivers
Grateful to the numbness
As no passionate red blood drips
Stopped by the coldness in my veins
They make promises
They make requests
They make love
To the now deconstructed me
As I lay still and quiet
They come in me.
