do i think too much?
picking at the wounds: i don't let them heal
i give a bruised look
and new pigments reveal a new flesh
that i dress myself in.
i tore myself up over tears
and the years that i devoted to them,
nursing my fears, spiraled round them
in the nighttime
and i open the old wound time after time
and can never drain enough poison. You know;
and if i were your young bride,
it would not repair --
if i were your young bride
would i (i would) tear you up too --
do i talk too much?
my bones a cage, my tongue a fist that twists
and i do not know
how --
i do not know how
when i'm on my own.
"Do I love you?"
"Yes"
"And do I love you?"
"Yes, you do"
-- but i made you cry, Baby. i made you cry --
YOU ARE READING
THE OCEAN
Poetry'In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different now, and...
