Your letters used to taste so sweet
rolling off of my tongue, and into my heart
where you lit a candle that we watched burn.
We traveled through my arteries and got lost.
I breathed nothing but you, and it was enough--
until you tossed me a buoy and started pulling.
I came up for air and found myself lost:
Where had you gone? (Where was my heart?)
I coughed you up; you left behind the burn
of a swig of Absolut that I thought would be sweet.
I tried to open your door, but you kept pulling
it shut. I guess you had enough.
All I can feel now is that burn
like a sweltering sunburn on my sweet
porcelain skin. You tug me and shove me, keep getting me lost--
is the moon that won't stop pulling
my tides. Enough!
You've weaseled into my brain, pulling
the strings you sewed to my heart--
I tried looking for it, but it is still lost.
You lit another candle, smells sugary sweet.
I trace my fingers through the flame to watch them blister and burn:
a singe I can't resist. I just can't get enough.
Now your letters do nothing but burn,
yet no others seem to taste as sweet
as yours before you ran away. You are lost,
it's okay, it's the fault of your heart.
It's got strings sewed on, too. She's pulling
yours, and you can't get enough.
I suppose we are all staggering, lost
in this thick, crimson sea of massacred hearts:
Can't stop licking the blood that smells so sweet--
but, like a straight shot of *****, it scorches, it burns.
I had a heavy, glass bottle-full, but it, too, got lost;
Guzzled by a soggy, fraying man who just can't get enough.
This was a quick exercise in my creative writing class. We were supposed to write a sestina about something we've been obsessing over, and I just kind of ran with it.