A woman half-starved for attention,
I often surround myself with those
whose jealousy stains their fingers,
whose touch feels sweetest
in the hungry hours
before dawn.
like a fool,
honeyed hands
do not sustain me;
like a poet,
I wish to be devoured,
for someone, anyone,
to taste the parts of me
that are hardest to swallow,
and love me anyway.
For a life that leaves me full.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoezjaThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
