I could milk a baby, I could tear their
nipples out with my teeth. I cannot bear
to see you cry, I cannot wait for you to
impale your throat with a chair leg.
I am familiar with the town of
intrusive desires that conspire within
the wires set on fire in my head.
I never miss the twenty - four seven
Sabbaths, where each of the different
villains of my vicarious schizophrenia
slip a mealworm through our left ear
and chew on our sanity as a last supper
They come from such a clandestine
corner of my mind that loves to be seen.
A place where temptations climb from
the womb of unholy thoughts
toss a coin to the pool, sing a little song
about how forbiddingly good it would be
to know what it feels like to be
a woman.
YOU ARE READING
Harlequin
Poetrycome indulge in voluminous daydreams and help yourself on raging tidal emotions. • poetry collection
