Connor Byrne | On Holy Saturday | Apples ands Snakes: Blackbox | Spoken Word

I kissed a boy on Holy Saturday and for
that sin he got my soul. He took me to his bed that night I said I had cold
feet so he just held me as we slept In the morning I remembered I had not
thought to bring a toothbrush he walked me halfway to the bus stop and I walked
as if in resurrection. We were 17 and I took the wine he gave to me with the
hiss of flesh around candlewick he took the flame from his fingertips and
pressed it onto me as if I’d been made of clay and watching myself crumble I found
a man and made myself in his hands but he sculpted me too much in his image
adorned in gold dressed in cold civility cased in ceramic filled up with
direst cruelty tongue turned while spoken well quickly for he saw me as
putty and elastic What indents did not fade, what scarf or sleeve transparent With his touches more and more gold leaf flaked from his knuckles to be re-plated
in the morning in apology. Gold teeth fell all out of his mouth to lodge into my skin where it should not bleed He had a way of twisting things. My hand in his became my hand in his grip went back till I was shuddering one night. He’d had
too much to drink. I said boy I need my hands to live and boy I bleed from my fingertips to touch him, to breathe him I have seen that boy take life and he has
taken mine. I stand still just out of the light of the streetlights where I could
see the stars. I wait for his claws to pull out of me for him to spit back down
my eyeballs that he took from their sockets with such ferocity I tell myself
I will not miss him but what would I be if I did not miss him did not flinch
when every blond and whistler was he did not miss mystery bruises and bathroom
mirror steam did not cut my gums of scalpel blades tucked still behind my
teeth. I held a boy last night and ran my fingers through his hair. We went to sleep in separate beds with separate knives under separate heads

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