How can anyone love me 

                                                like I am 
                                                when I am 
                                                not pretending
                                                to be lovable:
          not painting my face,
          or disintegrating my body, 
          or making excuses 
          as to why I left 
          the door open again,
          why the books unspiral 
          into stories about you.

How can anyone know me  

          after I crumble like a cathedral
          when it’s god abandons it to the tide
          of bad believers, rushing in and out.
          Like the little angel on the spire
          my mouth is full of sunlight,
                                                              The last

I say this is my job:

          to burn,
          to make it art.

But you won’t love me  

                                            like this, 
                                            like a weapon,
                                            like the last person
                                            to carry a religion.
                                            In my devotion
                                            a violence rises 
                                            to my lips. 
           I desire control
           but I will
           not find it  
           through you.
           I know what I need 
           and what I want.

How can anyone remember me.

            You’ll see me walking
            over foreign continents,
            giving you the impression
            of all the sharp objects
            who will not save you
            from yourself.
                                             And I’ll be happy
                                             giving myself
                                             to something else
                                             much bigger
                                             than your love.