Trapdoors

Your wary gaze hits my skin like the first September rain,

And I try to dry off between kisses and lip stains.

Your silences nick my freezing skin until it’s peeling.

I have grown wiser, but not enough to stop the bleeding.

My face is a door covered in some cracking paint.

It depends on the onlooker whether I’m a fresh saint.

Still, your touch shoots through me like an absolution,

And I try to sit still, but my head reaches for conclusions.

Do I deserve your answers, or should I reject your words?

You bury me in daisies when others offer me swords.

Should I let you catapult me in the sky in full force?

Are you just a fail-safe or are your palms some trapdoors?

-Jackie