Lobotomy

Sometimes, I wish you were

poetry. Bang your tongue

against the doors.

-

Locked, bolted in the kitchen

where drawers of knives

slit through beautiful lies.

-

But we're all civilised people

So take all your knives and forks

Place them on the grates.

Love, that tasted nice.

Life, left a sour taste.

Pain, afforded a blank untarnishable slate.

Sympathy equals lobotomy.

The rest wrapped, grasped into

the webby compartment.

All in one; stomach.

Nice bite.

-

Spinning heartless tops in

your lap.

You say, but you don't say.

'Lips are there to breed

illnesses deep. I stay up late

because spectres speculate through

my sleep.'

Sometimes I wish you were

poetry.

You hide and just glide through

life, which works just fine.

But sometimes I really wish

you were poetry.

-

Then… I could rip you apart.