my heavy eyelids shut the light out
and the weight of my mind rests on your chest.
we turn in the night for a secret warmth
hidden under the blanket your mother gave you
when you were only two years old.
i filter your words through the echo
of your heartbeat inside the cavity of my ear;
i think i hear you say it tickles. so i try
only for a bloody nose when your knee finds me
hidden inside your t-shirt. it used to be white.
the tantrum of children in adult bodies,
half naked and covered in my blood.
i'm laughing at your attempts at medicine
with a box of tissues and a cupped palm.
"pinch my nose, up here" and you pinch
too gently at first, afraid to break me.
the cushions of your finger and thumb
lull me into a cradle, my ear pressed
against your bare chest and you hold me,
my eyes shutting closed again and we sleep.
there's no title because the only thing i could think to call it was "a bloody nose" which is a terrible title.