other poets write about unrequited love,
and slit-worthy wrists stained
and cherry lips that leave blossoms
on each cheek they brush.
other poets write about missing the
person who makes you feel like
youre on fire, and each touch just
ignites you further.
other poets write about hurt so deep
the oceans wave in jealousy; hurt
caused by men that smoke death sticks
and always leave their ashes by the bedside.
other poets write how waking up to an empty
house with only peaches as apology notes
ring like high pitched screams in caves or
maybe just car alarms.
other poets write about the clandestine loves
with firework-cracker girls tracing entire
witty novels on kitchen countertops using
only their matchstick fingertips.
i write about how peaches rot so quickly;
how missing someone who doesnt
exist is the worst form
of loneliness;
how i have no voices in my mind
but have a lifetime of undone
experiences to unravel and no words
to cut you with.
i write about unstable introverts,
who believe 2am is no different
to any other go.ddam.n hour of the day.
i write poems in the form of compulsive liars,
because truth is,
im not a poet all all.
(SH)