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.