the prepositions taste better when they're not the most important; original poetry
When I kiss you, there’s blood in my mouth. In yours or in mine?
No, from. From.
I press harder. Maybe in both.
Our red-streaked tongues not caring for a second of it. Our bruised knuckles are oblivious.
From mine to yours, this red will flow.
See, from. From mine. It works better that way.
Lovely.
You want some ice? It’s no trouble.
I was pulling feathers out from under your wings. From the soft part just under.
The sheets were coiled, maybe you’d have remembered that. I remember because I wanted to fall into them, through them, bury myself in the place between blanket and sheet. Between you and sheet.
I wanted the dust to come land on the parts you weren’t on. On the bits of skin that weren’t important, the bits you can’t do anything with.
And maybe when the we were unveiled, they’d only have to polish those parts. But no one would care. They’d look at the parts with you on.
But I carried on writing my name with the ink you gave me, with the tips I already had in my fist.
My name is now scratched on the inside of your belly. I wanted you to think of me when the hot spray got it, when it made it sting. I wanted you to think of me in the shower.
I can wrap it up, nice and warm.
These bloody, hurting things.
These letters ten-miles wide that look like me.
These unseen words turning pink with every day.
I keep picking the scabs off while you sleep.
This red will flow. I promise. I keep promising.
Lovely.
Scratching, scratching till you notice.
Lovely.
No, from. From.
I press harder. Maybe in both.
Our red-streaked tongues not caring for a second of it. Our bruised knuckles are oblivious.
From mine to yours, this red will flow.
See, from. From mine. It works better that way.
Lovely.
You want some ice? It’s no trouble.
I was pulling feathers out from under your wings. From the soft part just under.
The sheets were coiled, maybe you’d have remembered that. I remember because I wanted to fall into them, through them, bury myself in the place between blanket and sheet. Between you and sheet.
I wanted the dust to come land on the parts you weren’t on. On the bits of skin that weren’t important, the bits you can’t do anything with.
And maybe when the we were unveiled, they’d only have to polish those parts. But no one would care. They’d look at the parts with you on.
But I carried on writing my name with the ink you gave me, with the tips I already had in my fist.
My name is now scratched on the inside of your belly. I wanted you to think of me when the hot spray got it, when it made it sting. I wanted you to think of me in the shower.
I can wrap it up, nice and warm.
These bloody, hurting things.
These letters ten-miles wide that look like me.
These unseen words turning pink with every day.
I keep picking the scabs off while you sleep.
This red will flow. I promise. I keep promising.
Lovely.
Scratching, scratching till you notice.
Lovely.