i had an infatuation with art,
something kinda like love.
an attachment like tattooing
skin that sheds,
i'm the design left
behind.
i have this obsession
with words,
they bend and snap
like sticks with too much pressure;
my obsession with creation and destruction
collide to give you sentences you can feel,
can't you?
feel it?
it's sticky like marbles of ice cream
that dried up on your fingers and mouth.
tacky like wax but thin
with the ghost of sugar
that exfoliates your face
as you swipe, with the back of your hand
that caked up cream resists before
offering itself away.
like the last slice of cake
it calls for you.
can you?
feel it?
YOU ARE READING
PILLOW
Poetrywhen my head hit the PILLOW, i dreamt of words and painted them with letters, hoping to release. hoping to find peace.
