Suppose I can put up two of my poems |
If you eat your heart, it says, Then can I have your hands? They are more useful by far, making, breaking, taking all they want. I shake my head and wander through the leaves as it attempts to compromise. Ok, your eyes then. Not as useful, but they still glow and pierce and you won’t need them as a window anymore. I mean, they’ll just break and where does that leave you? Around the stomach I think. I trudge on in silence through the floating colors to the black door. It’s smooth reflection shines back, and I stare at it for a while. You’re going off topic, it complains. What about me? What about what I want? I grasp the knocker and pound twice. The sound carries through space, and I wince at the echo. It seems amused at my attempt. You wouldn’t possibly give me your lips, would you? My eyes narrow, and I grab the knocker and pull. Nothing moves. Blood rivulets spring at my palms and flow along my straining arms. I finally let go and return to staring. In the very least your ears? They’re mine! I scream. It’s mine! I slam my sticky palms to the entrance and the door swings wide. Permission granted, I breathe, and move through. |