This is my poem, There are many like it, but this one is mine.
This is the poem your ghost told me not to write, when it broke into my home,
This is my beating heart blossoming out of my lips and no, it's not perfect, we are a network of broken parts connected only by the fact that their edges lock together.
I ask the world why I am so broken and she says that It's this weather. It's that letter you keep, that you don't believe. Or It's the one you ripped and put back together then ripped and burned, then the smoke-soaked your bones. Which means she didn't lie when she told you she was in your marrow. You are, my Leukemia. Dear god I miss your illness, dear god I miss your soul.
Dear god Love I have grown so old. I ask my eyes what they see in doom. They bathed me in silence
With the same water you left.
YOU LEFT ME HOWLING AT THE NEW MOON. Restless upon the Loam I am trying to kiss the stone of your feet-No! This is MY poem and I will vibrate to the frequency of the universe I will dance to whatever beat I goddamn please because it is permissible to WANT, to live without |you, are a glass cage of pretty words and phage, and I am a bird.
This is my poem. This is my poem and I am proud of every word.