And what did you expect me to say after? 
That I was happy? 
That love quivers in the knees?
That in the end, splitting myself open felt like a blessing?
Couldn’t you see that our lilac wrists were wilting? 
That our bones were jutting from our skin like swords?
Our bodies did not fit right,
and they knew it;
they fought to tell the tale,
to clue us in, 
to scrape us up against each other. 

And maybe none of that matters.
And maybe the truth is 
I would slice myself open for you,
halve myself like the sweetest fruit.
Pit myself pure, pit myself pretty. 

And maybe the truth is
my love is a stone too big for my body.