ESC (ULENT)

My fingers itch
in so many ways,
and yours
slowly
turn pages of Sylvia Plath
that you read
for the love notes.
I plucked the fruit
that bears your name,
ripe,
bursting
in my mouth
where I want you—
the dripping wet,
the too-late,
the tastes
of cold lamplit
empty tunnels fill
my open mouth
screams
ten times a day—
but I only hear
your eyes
whisper to me
faster than tongues can,
and I never tell you,
I
never
wanted
anything less
than the stars.
Self awareness
is a serial killer,
and resentment
is a gateway drug
in the jagged edge
addiction
of me and you.
I
pick apart your words
in the hope of seeing my name
in there,
somewhere, and
You
tell me I’m full
of
myself.
But darling,
is it any wonder,
when
no one else wanted the space?

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