Nyctophilia

6. Grow up

I used to think in poems,
Breathe in poems,
Speak in poems, my tongue flapped around with rhythm and repetition,
And rhyme resided at the edge of my crooked front teethe.

I used to bleed in poems,
Choke on words like shards of ice in my throat,
I used to gargle poems with listerine.

I rode with poems on my way to school,
Walked with them to the bookstore
Slurped poems with my iced coffee.

I used to be a poem. So why?
Why did I have to grow up?