pink hearts made of pig skin

when i said to you “all you are is skin to me, and bones and nothing more” i was afraid afraid of our childhood memories, our dripped pomegranate juice of bodies slick and slouching of voices toneless fleeting, demeaning of the ebb and flow of life and death drumming incessantly on my doorstep like an old lover. the way it flooded our hearts, diluted our veins until one morning it tells all: once alive you'll never need a cold love, inside the hills to be bones and nothing more.