Becoming (You)
I become your next thought
as it emerges—every idea
nothing but consciousness
calling itself cool.
Proper.
Pompous.
Hard.
Sometimes, cruel
to witness something so quirky,
sick and sharp—your soul
turning hard questions over,
watching them fall in spasms,
rhythmic as breath, as rain—
the liquid form words take
when we start to storm.
The relentlessness of too much release.
Greed, that hot rush of bile
at the back of my throat,
the smell of rotten hunger rising,
every temptation burning
before the deepest part of your shadow
swallows me whole.
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