angel stone

I am a femur and barely nineteen.
I am a spine,
a craft of glass.

breathe these dreams vivid and seep
a life with the darkest ink...
then fill my empty fingertips with grace
and speak of communal blood and praise-
molten hell, courseing through a soul not there
turn around and give me a dead-eyed stare.
all your bravery,
the tedious loyalty
i just want to see it gleam on the pretty white floor.
this is an outpour,
a field of sunflowers flourishing in battery acid.
you are the sum of all repititive,
eating a way through your picket white fence,
a gate of pearly teeth.