I tried to write poetry about pushing her until she couldn’t breathe
about the way her soft lips opened against me and how
she bit my neck even when I begged her to stop
I tried to find the words for all of those things but
I realized that she had written the poetry for me
she wrote it on my neck in shades of purple
and on my back in little streaks
she wrote poetry with the wrinkles in my sheets and
the knots in my hair and the
taste of her in my mouth.
Sometimes poetry isn’t always on paper
Sometimes it’s on people.