I am not a novelist, I am a poet.
Stories run through me, from me,
Not sunny.
I stutter and I stumble
My dialogue is bad
And with prose, I teem.

Time buries me with
A million lines,
Too many commas,
Too many rhymes.

“So write a collection!” exclaim the encouragers,
But the worn backspace of my keyboard groans,
“Oh, don’t you encourage her!”

And so I am a poet, a novelist I am not.
Wishing for more words, until Time lets me rot.

The lovers,
They melt.
Flowing and naked.
Their colors,
They blend

As I slowly awaken.
I was so young the first time that I saw them
Taken aback by the honesty of desire
So blatantly plastered on my grandmother’s wall.

Sometimes I think she put them in the bathroom
Just so I could stare behind doors.
Admire the truth
Instead of shying from it.

And with them, I grew—
To know, to love
To own and to hang

In my own ****** apartment,
They watch as I cry,
As I nap,
As I break my cheap couch.

They’ll watch as I move—
Up, up,
And out.

I hide my eyes behind the hood
Let the light bleed through the thin
Fabric and the thick skin
That holds me.

I’ve grown accustomed to
The way it feels between
sharp teeth.
Digging into me
Is far too easy.

They let the wolf
Swallow me whole,
And now I will spend
Lifetimes in his belly.