Am I that canker dwelling on the tip of your tongue,
as you are mine?
I play my teeth against you and yet
I hate you.
I can't get enough
and I can't watch you smile;
bare identical teeth to the sore complex.
You want to see the stars
I'm not convinced they exist.
I need to feel them crush me,
then they will be close enough for us to touch.
Four corners hold your horses.
Tie me down and I won't bend.
By the time my story ends,
I'll be flat and changeless.
You'll be as round as a hypocrite can get.
It's fine.
Out of love's letters, the ink is stroked in cruelty;
all the notes hidden in the sore complex.
