i swallow down your misery like i would cough syrup
but it only makes me sicker than before
they tell me i love too much for someone so young
i would rather be the paper i write these poems on
or the limbs of a tree
than to have to stay in this body as my lungs cave in
because i can’t breathe when you look at me
if only i could just exhale you to get you to leave
i wrap up my cuts and bruises
but there are still hot ashes around all the places you stood with me
i am still tasting you on the corners of my mouth as my feet burn up
and i fall asleep into fitful fever dreams
drowning and needing your air
i used to dream of having open heart surgery
and the surgeons would almost always find you inside me
deep in my veins and devouring me
and like the flowers they’ll put next to my hospital bed
i’ll be dead in less than a week