leftovers

 Artists are cannibalistic,

Stitched in quilts like Frankenstein,

Fragments of borrowed selves; intertwined.

You don’t really get over people, just surface level surrender

Temporary relief, facades

especially when it comes to the hearts we sink, 

enveloping them in the folds of our chambers

Not in yearning for lost loves,

but in the weight of identity,

crushing, borrowed,

like grass creeping up your calves from the damp earth.

We absorb each person we meet,

consuming them until they’re a part of us,

and we are of them.

I crave the illusion,

I want to disregard the table set,

for corporeality feels unappetizing,

even served on silver, a shallow debt.

We crave to exploit vehemence,

where bodies become barriers, and nothing more.

Why do we glorify the flesh?

Anatomy’s allure isn’t reverence,

but a hunger, a desire to possess,

to consume the body as the soul,

a visceral quest for expression.

But only if.

the craving to consume, to be consumed,

I want to bite, to tear;

to rend the silence, to unleash the wound.

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