if our bodies are temples, then i
am an abandoned monastery,
haunted by ghosts and filled
with shadows. you say
you want to worship
at my altar, but boy
i don’t know where i hid
the candles and the incense,
i don’t quite
remember how to unlatch
these boarded up windows,
and the truth is: a long time ago, i had a visitor
that i thought was like every other
temporary devotee
passing through, but he forced his way in and he said
he wanted to leave a part of himself
in every one of my corners, carve his initials
on all my walls and i didn’t know then
that even if you can’t refuse someone sanctuary, you can
stop them from burning you down
from the inside out -- i
didn’t know so i just stood there
silently and cried when he left; some days i still feel
like there is a brush fire contained
in my body, like it rips
through my veins and scorches
all the parts of me that used to know how to trust
implicitly, but i ran out of water
the day that stranger came. i guess
what i'm trying to tell you is that i am cobwebbed-dusty
and scratched up and wary
of strangers with narcotic kisses and smiles
rare enough you feel
like you have to earn them and so i want you to think carefully
about what you want and how long
you want to stay
before you kneel down and request permission
to enter. [i am filled
to the brim with my own ashes and if you’re not careful,
i’ll bury you in them.]