Literature
The anatomy of my survival.
I am machine, cold,
though I want to be devoured
like sweet blood oranges.
Scarred, crimson fruit
in autumns alleyways.
& for those unaware,
this is a freudian slip.
I have never known
the meaning of silence.
I am too loud,
not loud enough.
My knees
are their own
bruised universe
as I ask for wisdom
spread along my soil.
My branches -
they shake
with insecurity.
This cemetery cat:
I want him to hurt me.
Claw his way
through my anatomy -
into the darkest parts of me.
This is not love.
This is back-alley
romance, untamed
wanderlust &
he begs for the chance
to find it. -
He is pieces,
emotionally cursed.
A black cat,
& I am not sup