Autophagy
I talk about my feelings like they are pets—
tamed and innocent as if I’m never hungry
for my real self, never starving for a unique
reality, as if never wild. I have not ever tried
then failed to unwild them. Yet language
is a failure of the feeling as the feeling
is beyond any language, but think about it—
how majestic it would be to run to a beach
to collect pebbles one frozen morning,
instead to find an octopus bleeding indigo
whilst eating its own arm like the one
we watched in our last winter, tell me—
what would you name this feeling?
You Winged Thing
Like growing things, I grow
wings, transparent and iridescent
like an after-rain sky, sprouting out
from my scapulas that used to itch,
itch unbearably but one starry night,
on the tip of my fingers, I feel soft
feathers, silky and glorious as a new
born idea to make me scribble down
an aflame poem of passion on a piece
of black paper signed— I love you, you
winged thing, do not ever burn, glow only.
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