A square peg in a rusty, circled hole:
That's my tongue sliding down your throat.
Those wishful words are stuck,
Hoping, like you,
To not go unseen,
Even though you do.
Those words are daggers, behaving
As though they aren't mine.
I speak with knives;
I meant for them to be
Feathers.
Those doves were sacrificed, back in June,
For no honest reason.
I speak with charcoal ash,
Black as those knives I spit
At you.
Those apologies are weapons I use
To **** it.

It slips out of me.
This love of mine.
This black love.
I'm through.