I want a lover to touch them and whisper,

"Here you have a constellation of stars."

He'll trace them with the tip of his finger.

 I will tell him that moles and birthmarks

are the evidence of your death in a past life.

I have always been stabbed in the back.

He'll laugh at ugliness he has turned sweet

and I at sweetness I've turned bitter.

Then we'll cover ourselves in the bed sheet.