A palate cleanser
tearing open overripe figs
biting into legs of lamb
perfectly roasted over the
burning embers of my vacated bed.
Eat twelve grapes at midnight
with the awareness that
all fortune sent your way
was moulded by my hands.
Buildings crumble, nature reclaims,
we are strangers with shared memories.
And I hope
the thought of me
makes your skin crawl.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
