top of page
  • grace

Sugar in My Mouth



The thoughts were not

given permission.

The cold of November

Entombs me,

Yet infinite fantasies

Shroud me in flames

Such that the pearly snow

Melts in the shape of my footsteps.


I have created my own destiny,

A chalice of sweet, syrupy poison

That sticks to my teeth

Until you come to

Lick them clean,

Dragging your nails across my

Sternum in

Loops of eight.


You tap me

And the sap flows,

Yet neither one of us has the patience

To sit while it

Boils down to

Something you can pour over

Blueberry pancakes on a

Sunday morning in

November.


So the sweetness is

Watered down

And pours from my mouth

Trickling down

Dripping from in between

My legs

Spread wide

Staining the white sheets

Both wasted.


You were never really there

So why is there sugar in my mouth?


28 views0 comments

コメント


recent posts.

bottom of page