Teach Me

let me breathe underwater, walk the blisters of shattered diamond glass.

dye muscles shades of regret, paint summer suns a deep burgundy red.

let me bathe, claw and bite my own skin.

teach me to covet my body with lovely, flowering spring.

glisten with every decorative abnormality, every incision, every piece of flawed skin.

teach my tongue to wean sweetness.

my lips to roam plains.

my mouth to glisten wet, to tantalize, make sweat.

teach me to soothe the triage of my heart’s palpitations,

to loosen tectonic plates and marvel at earth’s respiration.

teach me touch without the instinct to prey,

without the rippling fade of white marble staircases, sullen or greyed.

teach me to care without the tendency to fear;

without the risk of abysmal, shuttering quakes;

without trembling hands or honey woven hair.

teach me to pull apart shadows sun gleams cast and blush.

taint my skin a heavier shade of your touch.

rose melted dew, fingers led astray;

bodies gnarled and enchanted, forests wild with the rain.

let me rage the way suns spout fire, turn a bright red beige.

let my kisses turn sour, sprinkle lime zest on my face.

Elžbieta Janusauskaite