my words are like apple juice.
simple and reminiscent of a small child.
they drip down my chin,
flood my chest,
and make the floors sticky.
no one likes a mess

they smell sweet and interesting
but when you finally
get them in your mouth,
they’re bland
they don’t taste as good as they should.
no one likes that,
but it’s okay because I don’t either.

all I’ve ever wanted was
rosé flowing from my mouth,
my fingertips,
its intoxicating scent drawing
Instagram teenagers and publishers
into my spell.
everyone would want to taste
and maybe
my words would mean something to someone

but I’m cursed with apple juice words
forming rambling episodes
on notebook paper
that no one would want to read