Spiracle

I want the parts of you you only show
 To the corner of your bathroom mirror
 I want the parts of your hand-grenade heart
 That beat slowly with anger and fear
 I want the parts of you you only show
 To the birds outside your bedroom window
 I want the teeth that you lost as a child
 That you hide in a box under your pillow
 
 I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing
 The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you
 And I want your violence, your silent sedation
 Your moon eyes, your telescope, morbid fixation
 And I want your pyro, your born-again virgin
 Your hands on my insides, your fingertips crawling
 And I want your Jesus, your suicide mission
 Your lips on the microphone, soft disposition
 And I want your parties, the shark in your water
 The scrapes on your knees and the blood that spills over
 And I want your zeroes, your polluted marrow
 The sweat on your palms and your surveillance shadow
 I want your secrets, your clementine fields
 The ropes that you climb up, the parts that won't heal
 I want your safe word, your passive resistance
 The sickness you foster, your favorite addictions
 And I want your nightmares, the ghost in your doorway
 Your paralyzed sleep and your-
 I want you, butterfly, I want you, sailor
 I am your lover and I am your jailor