Crevase in Slade

He only loves me atop mountains
when he shepherds me to his holy land
He can hold my barren womb in his hands,
bury it with his heart beneath a temple of sandstone.
Love dies slowly between four walls
goes limp and slides into me
weighing against my chest.
My voice is a rock in my throat
and he is a bandage soaked in
lavender water, ready to slide off.
The water scalds my hands
erases my fingerprints and blacks out my face.
He won’t find me here.
And he left his heart below the mountain.

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