in our minds we rot.my lips taste like soot.More Like This
i realize that we
are nothing but hell-brought fire,
the seven deadly sins
(you be lust, i'll be pride)
and a mess of upside down picture frames.
my teacher once told me
that most writers are introverts;
we drink in the world
and spew it back in ink and titles.
we tattoo words
across the inside of our eyelids--
but somewhere in the process
i must have drawn you
inside the convex of my irises,
because all i can think about
is your wind-shaken frame
flames licking across your hips.
you turn black
beneath my hands.
i can't write about that.