Sylvia Plath and salvia on my kitchen table
I think I have tried enough
To free my mind
From its own cages.
"Try poetry", I tell myself
While the dust grows on my own
Skin
Shattered pieces of myself
On the floor.
Cutting, cutting,
I chop, chop what I hate
And what I love
So desperately, words flow
Like a river
Of dark and pure
Blood.
A death by thousand cuts,
Someone would say.
But my head needs
To be baptized as
I repair my own sins and tricks.
So I wash away the words
And boil them alive
So that they can't flow
On the kitchen table.
