writingsforwinter:

They do. Some of them, I’m sure.

They want every poem to be about them,

to believe evolution made them just for this purpose:

to come back to me again and again, to haunt me

like the last step on a landing

you never cease to fall through.

On the worst days, I think of ways to end them all.

Enough mercury to kill a dozen men, a spoonful

of hemlock like Cleopatra.

Invite them over for gin laced with cyanide.

Maybe even the mere sight of my face

could hunch them over with remorse,

could leave them limp for the taking

like the hundreds of minnows they’ve

hauled onto rigs for slicing,

glittering bodies bursting wet with shine.

But the truth is this:

They will always read these poems.

They are these poems.

That is not an excuse, but a reason

for why some flowers only bloom underground.

For why my hips still ache sometimes at their names.

For why I write them in,

instead of letting them out.

(via writingsforwinter)