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