Christmas

I don't want to waste
your time,
but I have
things of yours
I can't speak of.

You are on me like
ground in grass
stains
scent of salt water and
beach sand in my hair,
threaded in with the fabric
of my tee-shirt

your molecules
lodge like
sharp metal wedges in my
teeth, in between my joints
and under my fingernails
your sharp edges
catch and burn
long after I cannot
touch you.