Do you have sympathy for the devil?
because I would not mind being
your second, third, fifth, last choice,
because it would mean, no matter how little,
I would still be wanted.

I should say Bon appetite
when I hand you my poems
because I know how you
devour the words.
Perhaps I should be honored,
But I'm a little afraid that
You'll know me too well.

My writing is not
pudding cups,
spring picnic in the park.
It should hurt
Like burning your tongue
and getting a brain freeze.
Does it cause you pain?
Can you actually feel what I do?

A poet should keep some to herself
because life is hard to swallow.
I can't forgive you for
reading my choking poems
where there's nothing but air
To take my breath away.

I should be honored,
but I am afraid that
You'll know me too well

Just cut me
Just pick up the **** knife and cut me
You've already left jagged wounds
Prove that you're capable enough to inflict them to my face
I'm tired of the rocks thrown from the distance
I'm tired of the blows from behind, of the back stabs
So look me in the eyes
And cut me

I am last season's remains
a cracked, dry petal
fallen off a prinses irene tulip.
I beg for attention,
for human affection
much like a plant demands
water to live. Please tell me the lonely
winter is over.