I want to write miles of poetry on butcher paper so you will always have something to read in the quiet moments. I want to order squid ink from the depths of the Pacific that will never fade so my words would always be near you...crumpled in your pocket next to subway tokens and lint. I draw lines of words that form sentences. You catch glimpses of things I try to hide with smirks and subject changes. Oh..I am a tricky girl with a pen. And it feels good. It feels good to say these things, feel these things, use pens and typewriters until my fingers ache with alliteration and meter...words spill over from one stanza to the next. I break the rules of Villanelles and Sestinas. I give new definition to the sonnet and write your name over and over ten times on fourteen lines and call it a work of art...my best yet.
I came on my fingers and drew pictures on the curb and stopped traffic just so everyone could see the beauty of it glisten in the afternoon sun...they said the portrait was uncanny. I agreed until my jaw unclenched...until I felt you crawl inside of me. Until I felt like a museum.
A candy store full of nickel sweets for the insatiable craving for sugar on my tongue was buried under stacks of acid free paper, cradled between your thighs and mine. Sharp tips of felt markers drag across my wrist as I attempt to show you how I bleed; how it all comes out onto you. A
And you smile because this rhymes somewhere inside your tissue and marrow. Somewhere that no one else has been. Somewhere that science didn't know existed.
And because of this we are pioneers.
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