i nearly called her last night
to tell her that i found out i was a character in a book
about
a poet who hated poetry
that doesn't spill out over boundaries
into ashes of desire
and obfuscates
that we are weapons
like boiling pots and empty cups
no one can drink from

using each other
against each other
desperate
which is why i am afraid to love
why i don't have smooth charm
why i cant make sense suddenly
while her wit
is as swift as a gazelle

i became her pathetic expectation
a self-destructive idiot

useless

fumbling with matches
setting myself on fire
with every word
like a good poet
until i was
burnt earth