Conceal
Pain me
so I can paint you
a picture
so small,
a portrait
for all my vacancies,
to fill them up with you.
And the gaps, gaping
at the luxury of you,
luscious labels
and perfume,
to consume what was
and has dissolved,
to kill, to kill, to kill,
and like Lazarus to rise
above all,
for if God were to let you go,
there would be nothing left,
but death, but death, but death,
and a small portrait
in a locked drawer.