In this state of mind,
I swallow my pride like I’m born to do it.
**** it back and let its bitter bite
coat my tongue and slide down
sides of my pretty pale throat,
caressing each of the guilty lumps
on its way to the below.

When it’s been stomached,
I thread my golden needle
on the first try.
I press my lips together
to pierce and sew them shut.
Crisscrossing over, under,
around, and through.
The tinny blood tastes
much less bitter than my pride.
I pull tight, ending the job
with its little uniform knots.

But certainty is key.
So I break each and every finger
on my small, able hands.
Once the most amazing
and interesting of instruments,
now hang crooked and limp;
however, as I watch them bruise and swell,
a deep pink to a fresh blue-violet,
I am wholly relieved.

None will be spoken,
None will be written.
Here, safe in my man-made silence.

You see;
Keeping a dog on the leash
is not easy
Cause chasing tail is so
incredibly appeasing
The pull teases until you release my leash
My teeth breaking through petals of meat
I'm chewing through
your shoes and excuses
I'm a nuisance when i'm loose
But you already knew this
Throw me a bone here
I'm starved for your scraps
I'd sit in your lap
but you're afraid that i'll attack
you're afraid that if this strap snaps
I'll run fast and never come back
bribe me with snacks
& take naps with me
lets be happy
I'll show you how good I can be
without my leash
One day, you'll see it
but by then i'll be gone
someone else's dog
someone else's add on

“Love,” am I right?
Either you handle the concept with a fifty-foot pole,
or you lick your lips, and
sink your teeth right into it without question.
You choose to be safe
or you choose to be satisfied.

But there’s a small collection of us
who hang back in the shadows.
Those of us who choose neither.
Those of us who think.

We’re hesitant to even speak the word.
[Rightfully so.]
You're a naive if you use it too much.
You're a heartless ******* if you don’t say it at all.
But it's only a word.
We shouldn't give it the authority
to paint us into a corner.

Yet, here I sit
where my favorite two walls meet—
plenty of moments for thinking—
a thick, fresh coat dripping down
on either side of me.

There you stand,
arms crossed and smiling—
all come-hither and inviting—
saturated paintbrush in hand.

The only thought I can manage?
*****. I really like this color.