My love, when you bend me over 
your workbench with the view of 
a few fallen screws and a dusty shovel, 
this is my gift to you. I know all 
the reasons not to, but it's fun 
to perform these taxidermied sighs 
with perfectly posed wingspans. 
I want to make your back bleed 
with how much I love you 
and won't be denied this 
false idol. After you clean 
my hairbrush or, mid-
smoothie-making, bring 
the peanut-buttered spoon 
upstairs for me to lick, I want 
to give you something back— 
so I open my mouth and 
like knotted scarves pull out 
lies. But if I’m being honest,
sometimes it's the pleasure of 
having a secret. All my life 
I’ve felt my life has this 
false back, and it doesn't
matter what’s there, just 
that you can’t reach it.