I think I’m more greedy
than you can imagine,
spread out and dyed,
smothered in the freshly baked pages
of imagery gone wild,
swinging out across the sand.
I want to swallow and taste
the bitter hue
of words gone sour
in the library of our thoughts composed,
boiled, shredded and baked
in the oven of our small apartment.
I’ve got the sensation
of all your angles and panes
stamped across my tongue
despite my actions of trying to
scrape myself clean of you
with a bloody knife.
I’ve got you printed deep within
the pages and painted
across my skin,
despite my horror.
I’ll never see your grimace,
your smile, your laugh
carved and curled around the words.
I’m expecting myself to write fantasy
in which you don’t exist,
the wall are white
and the sheets are clean.
You’re more of a poet than
I am though,
for I can still feel your presence
moving inside me.
