Kayt Krepcho Poems

I feel your blade
slicing through my heel
and the tendons tear
and I’m falling
...

My body, a tool,
a sharp, rigid thing
a soft, flexible thing
digging, pounding, twisting,
...

these cheekbones slice my face in half
and these teeth interrupt my smile
as it spreads across the cavernous face that
divides each ear
...

You call yourself a realist,
you romantic honey lipped f*ck.
I hate you and your wild
animal hair that crawls
...

with no fondness
I think of that foul,
limp thing that hangs
between your legs
...

This bed, an altar
where I offer up my body to some unknown
thing that comes to me in the shadows of my dreams.
The curve, the rim of my ribcage
...

letters like a silver chain
draping around my soul
and on the pendant
you pen your name
...

You Charles Starkweather,
dirty little James Dean of Nebraska,
with your bow legs and hissing speech impediment.
We poked fun at you in the cafeteria between bells.
...

Orchid prince,
In the morning on your doorstep
I called your name.
Where are you hiding?
...

your kisses on the cusp of my collarbones
magenta rings around your eyelashes
the dewey sponge that wets your lips
a sea of elbows and kneecaps and knotted hair
...