This poem is not for you, not about you. But I hope you'll read it.

My Frankenstein

I created a man out of bits of me
and dwelled inside his chest
ripped out a heartbeat from my ribs
so that a heart beats in his breasts

I pumped blood in with my fingertips
until it throbs deep in his veins
I smashed my fists against his lungs
to puff in all life’s petty pains

I swing a sledge hammer into his skull
pried it open till my hands ached with pain
scrunched up pretty dreams into a ball
dropped it in with thoughts that fall in like rain

I molded his arms out of courage
smashed some holes into its wall
shoved the ends in to get it working
so his hands could catch me when I fall

I made a patchwork of emotions
to sew a suit of skin on him
I placed shards of glass upon his eyes
so that tears of hurt sparkle within

and then I kissed his ice cold lips
which set his soul on fire
until those silly little wounds of his
ignite in flames, then, disappear

layer by layer, he comes undone
I peel away and strip him bare
of his immaculate pure innocence
and I gaze at him just laying there

that poor fragile, broken thing
a broken heart, with broken wings
that I had made
with my bare hands
my blood spattered
tired hands
my Frankenstein of sheer passion
Part’s of me glued to fit.