There are no more ways to feed me.
I wrote you the most beautiful bowl of fruit;
but my words were twisted up in
the flames of your
nodding its heads under
We are made up of the same piece of sky.
And I can’t leave, you can’t leave,
we’ve tried; and
we’ve tried to mix up our miseries
and we can’t even do that right.
I will look for you
in the crowd of my personalities.
Hold me, hold us, hold, don’t stop.
You are the vast ocean, but I’m every drop.
Swallowing your anger
is an empty pill that
makes me hungry.
I spilled ink on the floor, damn it,
and left it there for a year.
I would look lovingly at it
every so often,
and it would look lovingly back;
perhaps we’d have tea.
But then one day,
one black, anxious day,
I thought I should clean it
“It is better to be in my towels,”
I said. “Better to rumble through
my washing machine.
Better to get in between my fingers
and in my hair.”
it did like being there.
Even I didn’t mind it for a while,
looking in the mirror and pretending
I was something great,
my ink stains living through
bath waters and sprinkler systems.
The turning point is always feeling trapped,
the day I realized I could not get them off,
could not clear my skin of their
could not wash their beleagured soot
out of my scalp,
without cutting off my own
he spits out,
“you fucking suck!”
he slams the door.
and you wonder if maybe it is true,
since you don’t
feel much like
I think we have had enough of ourselves
dashing about and posing in sweet entropy.
You were the Ace of Cups
sitting there at the end like a period,
or a new sentence,
or a death sentence.
I have exhausted my organs
in vitriolic distinctions and
My body is writ with your pictures
like the valleys of Nazca,
you have carved me
with your hummingbird,
and I am staring at the blood
running down my hands
at our gasps and entreaties and
Just war with me, won’t you?
I beg you to plot against me.
Position your pieces and topple me,
because once you rid yourself of the
you will be victorious.
Don’t deny me.
Just give me this one favor;
attack, and rip, and chew, and kill.
Otherwise all my fancies
fly away like Icarus
Even as I
trance-like and immobile,
on soft cushions of
I wish it had been you who wrote me into existence.
I wish you’d formed my limbs with your silver-tongued essence.
I wish you had created my mind with your own.
I wish that you had written me, so I could feel known.