i spit the pit out
every time i eat plums,
i've lost my ability to speak,
cheek full of plum bits
and plate full of pits.
spitting and gargling
wheezing and choking,
plate full of red
glowing pits
yet there is one more.
kissing my throat with my finger:
why won't it just get out?
i'm trying to talk to you,
dear,
i'll cock my finger gun
and reach down my oesophagus,
yet i still can't leave
the pit in my stomach.
YOU ARE READING
young.
Poetryaren't we the lucky ones? we get to feel dead when we're supposed to be living. a collection of scrap paper rambles when i was younger.
