I want the pulp of you
Your stringy white insides
I want the lattice of your creation  
To get stuck in my teeth
I want to savor every sliver of you  
The parts of you that need a warning
The versions left on the shelf
The bits of you that blend in with the fruit
But pack a punch
I want to relish in the chewy remnants of a skin you shed long ago
I want to peel back your orange shell
And taste the tender threads that hold you together
I want to drink your syrupy nectar
To gnaw away the sweet parts
Right down to the rind of you
And swallow the secret pomace of your heart

Set the trap, sit back.
I have him right where I want him.

Call the hounds, then calm them down.
It’s all my prerogative.

Mouth agape in awe of me.
My beauty, or perhaps my cruelty.

One too many times,
he’s let me down.
I’m feeling ruthless,
my reprisals abound.

I am not that woman.
He thinks me weak.
Gone is the time
to turn the other cheek.

Power belongs to the one who cares the least.
I’ve beat my heart to pulp,
So I can make sure that’s me.

Moonlight will inevitably illuminate all.
Protect my pen from its disquieting scrawl.

Lead me a way I can stroll and not run.
Show me the ropes that I can climb to the sun.

Moonlight makes visible,
that which longs to be dim.

I belong in the stars,
suspended at a whim.

Water meets soil,
out grows a plant.

Mortar meets brick,
a wall suddenly stands.

Hands meet clay,
to sculpt a design.

You meet me,
and create something divine.

Boundless in my heart,
limitless in my desire.

Reach to me,
I’ll hold you.

I’ll walk through fire,
rock the boat,
make waves,
break chains,
cross lanes,
go insane.

Forever is scant,
I want more.

Rubble of mine,
crumble and divide.
Afflictions turned armies,
burdens turned shields.

Rumblings of a new world,
the ground sure to split in half.

Through a crack,
the afterglow appears.

A single new leaf,
born out of calamity,
tightly wound into itself,
begging for sanity.

Emerge a saviour in me.
Lick my wounds,
and salve my despair.

Look beyond my walls,
and find a warrior there.

Looking glass into dust.
Eyes that flare.
Longing for an answer,
searching for what is not there.

A perch a wooden dowel.
Gaze scouring the horizon.
A near sight curse,
back turned to let the knife in.

Bottle an elixir,
to give apathy to all.
Passion proves too burdensome,
too tender,
and too sore.

Adorn the furs and silks,
ring the mighty bell.
Hold the weeping frame,
and let her stumble in her veil.