You are poetry to me.
A muse.
Devil.
Angel.
Saviour.

You’re also my stomachs insides.
A regurgetant,
Sitting in the bowels of a rusted oil tank.
I take on more.
I threw it up.
On, to dead wood.

Dried.

You look like graphite now,
Your pale skin turned to,
A grey wisp,
Of illegible stress and fumble.

You’re poetry now,
As I’m done.

As I try to spit all of you up from inside me.
It won't work.

Poetry,
Is, like,
Cancer.

You're growing the size of
a melon in my
innards
turning my blood into
coal, or ink, or marker
or dye,

You are poetry
And cancer, and *****.
And.
I cant separate from you.