I write too many poems about my body.
but it’s the only house my spirit knows
and the only movement is my own
I could write you a love poem
or one about the way the kids in my hometown
used to walk the traintracks like they led somewhere
but i’m completely obsessed with this idea of entrapment
that i could be more than skin and bones that i could be made of
ink blotch shoulderblades
ribbon ribcages
clothespin wrists
and ruby lips
that i could abandon myself and get out of this cage
that’s too big or too small or whatever the **** they tell me this week.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
I write too many poems about my body.
but it’s the only house my spirit knows
and the only movement is my own
I could write you a love poem
or one about the way the kids in my hometown
used to walk the traintracks like they led somewhere
but i’m completely obsessed with this idea of entrapment
that i could be more than skin and bones that i could be made of
ink blotch shoulderblades
ribbon ribcages
clothespin wrists
and ruby lips
that i could abandon myself and get out of this cage
that’s too big or too small or whatever the **** they tell me this week.
June 2012
