a string of words

The fruit that is once bitten yearns to be eaten whole. But only once bitten and it is a flesh that rots. You took one bite and put a pause in me. Words roll around like the marble inside a soda bottle, stuck at the neck. A marble so beautiful is fated to its glass cage. The poem is always hiding within a pen that dares to write. You put a fucking pause in me. Poetry is never so poetic anyway. Maybe they are just lonely words looking for company, maybe they are all just the words I hesitate to say. Maybe it is a rage so large that it crawls through sentences and maybe it will all vomit out into nothing until it is something. And all this need to be profound when all of us really are poets in our own little world and all this need to be something, one thing, a title, a lord. How illegal it should be and how illegal it was for me to fit my whole being into one small spoon that I fed your half opened mouth. How hungry I was to be eaten slow. How pathetic that one spoon I made myself to be but how I cannot deny its beauty too. How these words have no direction but how with each word I strip myself for you. How you stirred nothing in me and how I told myself otherwise. How my painted fantasy was as real as it tried to be, like a stillborn baby dying to be alive. How I knew I’d give birth to a dead child and how I still cried at its silence. How a conclusion so empty can still be woven in and how these words long to become something, how they yearn to be understood and how I, the mother of my own words will never know who they grow up to be. The abandoned child is a string of words, aching to be understood by anyone who can read.