The Spoon
I’m a spoon.
I turn concoctions
I poor innocence into a caldron of imbibe, perversion, and violence.
I’m rusted from acidic negligence.
I burn the hand that Weals me.
When I make her bleed, truth crunches between my mandibles.
It’s cruel and scrumptious. I drool over its potential.
But the sheets don’t touch father sun before I leave.
She cries alone.
I cry alone.
I scoop the unknowing up. I throw them into a world of trouble and confusion.
My tongue passes my name, vowels never remembered.
My lips suck hope and maintain an emotional facade.
I like to push it in.
It hurts and I feel nothing.
But I move on.