Wax Man
Alex Wollinka
You say your insides melt for me
like hot wax, scalding, seeping, bleeding.
And you want to pry me open like a locket,
unfastening the latches down my chest
unclasping the halves of my sternum,
kneading my naked heart
as if your hands could soften it.
You mold my body with yours,
your fingers shaping my waist,
lacing between ribs, parting my lips
gripping my wrists like veins under skin.
Your bloated heart is an embryo,
a burning ember seeking a hearth,
a womb to birth itself
in an explosion of vessels.
But I cannot meld and mold around you.
I can only burn.