ur sleeping on the couch

im a cemetary with a beating heart

there are poems inside me that paper cannot handle there are words inside me that language has no room for there are feelings inside me that do not exist i am empty i am full i and always and never at the same time. i am split between me and her and her and me i am too many people; there are graveyards inside me and rotting caskets inside them; there is a massacre of identity with a body count only i can count. there is blood on my hands. my heart is interchangeable with my mind there is no right answer no right way to love to hate to devour. my tongue rests bitter in my own mouth and i taste like danger the red on my lips is a warning. there are knives resting between my bones that no chef no killer no wood carver can wield. think twice about resting your hands on my flesh millie moi i do not know which one of us is burning.