i nearly called her last night to tell her that i found out i was a character in a book about a poet who hated poetry that doesn't spill out over boundaries into ashes of desire and obfuscates that we are weapons like boiling pots and empty cups no one can drink from
using each other against each other desperate which is why i am afraid to love why i don't have smooth charm why i cant make sense suddenly while her wit incises me like grapefruit
i became her pathetic expectation a self-destructive idiot
useless
fumbling with matches setting myself on fire with every word like a good poet until i was burnt earth