I was sick, so sick,
but there was no changing
the lust in the eyes
feeding on my face.
The language of flowers
and frigid bathwater
was my horrific protection
of sustained existence.
(I was only twenty
Dignified in primitive plainness
I was transcendent and ideal
when I wasn’t clinging to the brush
moving wild and unwanted
amplified by heartbreak
I should’ve known true love wasn’t given
This is only earth)
I was not speechless but rather
stalled at the threshold of scrutiny
as every dream passed by me.
Tell me, did I look pretty
when you dug your poetry
out of my hollow stomach?
I’m sorry
the worms and I
ate through your lyrics.