Gut me.
finger my seeds
from the core flick
them from your thumb up
and onto the floor where you
will only step all
over me.

Sometimes you sit empty
bleeding out
red on the rug.

I wish on you the knowing-knowing
that your being is tangled up in the talons of a hawk
that is already trying to flee the room.

And that your being in filled with flesh and emotions,
heart and lust, nerves and purpose, as I am.

That when he holds a sign that claims sanctuary,
make sure he is promising your own

Not the promise to the end of his hunger for touch,
for confirmation that he will not be alone indefinitely.

And when you start to allow him to take bites
of your meaty being, He is not there for your taste

just because you've fallen in love with your predator
doesn't mean you should give him your bones

The room is thick with humidity from bodies that pulse to the beat of each lung's exasperated sputter of breath. Your mouth is thick with want. Want to say, want to bite, want to cling to those that your hands don't have the strength to hold.

It is the season of summer
which means my face will be all roses
before noon.
Which means I am celebrating the happenings
of those I wish had wanted me back
and those I will never want in return.
The air is thick with fog
like an open mouth filled with smoke
consistent with melancholy regret

You're sitting on bench outside a class you're skipping
smoking a cigarette you know won't be your last
with a person you don't really love
because you think it won't matter in the end anyways.

In the event

that I am left parched of purpose
abirritate the parts of me that are left gaping.
and imply to me that not all hagiarchies are holy

and in the event

that I am kissed on the hand by a saint
that has been through the process of heterotransplantation
remind me that I long ago gave up the study of frogs.

because in the event

I am left with only those maliferous lips
that emulate cainotophobia
press me to say that I deserve to grow

In the event that all is pressuring me to shrink