Cold. I am broken pieces of you.
Solidity never modified to feel
anything more than that which is.
I long to be what is not.
So tender and chilled, my hearts beat.
I have waited forever for the practicality
of nothing.
The reality that I am so much less
than what I had imagined,
than what is real.
I strangle each confession, believing it.
Tasting the succulents I am told are sweet.
Biting into them to find molded over
remnants of what may once have been
so very saccharine.
Oh, I wish to be
all I may be;
Every, that you are not of.
& let the seedlings sprout inside my spirit;
To grow something more wondrous than I.
Harvesting it for you,
so you may feed,
lapping the sugar
I have told you is sweet.
No comments:
Post a Comment