I write poems that confuse themselves for beehives and try to break apart
and spill their sticky innards whenever someone handles them too roughly.
I write poems that try to sew their readers back together
like tongues are something that can thread a needle in no time.
I write poems that miss being blank paper and empty lines.
I write poems for people that hate poetry, especially my poetry,
and who I know will shred each one to pieces
no matter how gently I slide them underneath the door.
I write poems that sing like hydrangeas in the mouths of corpses,
that don’t need watering or extra sunlight
because death feeds them just fine.
I write poems so I don’t have to have sex with people
who want my body instead of my words.
I write poems that can be thrown like knives
and sink into skin so sweetly you always forget, for a second,
that wound and word are unnervingly similar.
I write poems that hate themselves
and try to self-erase, so they can understand what it feels like to be me.
I write poems that bruise soft as nectarines
when fingers slide under their pulses.
I write poems that fill their pockets with earth
then place coins over their own eyes after the drowning is done.