i'm scratching at my own neck,
the flames in my throat scathing
and burning reckless with all the
words I bit back and destroyed
just to have you.
and where have you gone?
what did you do?
you are not here, so
don't think that you've proved
your enamoured love,
the wind on a humid-hot summer
day through the greek god curls
on your head.
you're my Medusa, so I will
no longer look. For my mind
turns to stone, and I crumble
to dust as if that was my destiny all along.
YOU ARE READING
THE ARSONIST
Poetry"You set my world on fire, but at what cost?" In THE ARSONIST, this prose-poetry chapbook explores third degree burns, stone faced lovers, and learning to love the blackened trees. New poems released every Thursday at 9PM MST/11PM EST.
