You called me your voice.
So,I presented you my words.
Words you crushed like blackberries in your sweaty palms,
Words looking for your arms like creeping vines,
Trying to reach your shut ears like musical clanks and chimes,
Travelling through the grey matter of your brain and voicing up your stomach like my unrelated rhymes,
Streaking through your skin like milk,
Draping your hair ; melting your clothes of silk.
Touching your cheeks like red cherries dipped in foamy cream,
Telling you of solar constellations and all the lovesick battles with you,that I dream.
But you fold them up neatly inside your tissue paper.
Keep them in your pocket ; deny their presence ; let them taper.
Each day, I write you poetry on tissue paper,
Each night, I use my own words to harm my soul and be my own skin scraper.
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