‘Pocket Worry’

I taste like soot,

charcoal drawings and acrylic paints,

shoving your red raw fist into your mouth,

choking on blood and snapping your fingerbones with your teeth,


my soul is too large for here,

and my heart is too big for your hands.

I say I am sorry,

for loving too much,

for forgetting your laundry in the washing machine because I was crying in the bath,

for the things I can’t be for you.

I am meat,

carcass and skin,

but I want to be moonlight,

floating pollen in the wind,

the sparkle of city lights when you took me up to that mountain, where I mourned my youth and my naïveté,

the sand between your fingertips when we dance against the lapping of the waves against the burning sun.

why can’t I love less?

I know that I scald. I am far too much.

when can I learn to love less?


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