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

blue-lip fire:

nodding its heads under

their bodies.


Don’t cry.

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.


Even as I
trance-like and immobile,
on soft cushions of
nefarious delight:
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.