Written by Sara Grimes
Cigarettes After Sex;
An Octopuses Museum
These are the things I consume.
Music? Who said anything about music?
My poems stick to your lips like green apple lip balm.
You gnaw at me like a
Half eaten core.
How I abhor your comeuppances over me!
You fester, you flaunt,
You peacock!
I cannot stand the sight of you
On stage
With
Microphone in hand:
Speechless
You render me
Voice-less,
In past tense
I can’t stay in the present moment
With you towering over me,
With your newfound fame
And urban renewal
In the form of a Tiny Dancer,
Smooth.
Me?
Too big, too hairy, too overwrought.
You study my complexities in the mirror
LIke a woodwind instrument.
You rot me from the inside out.
I am never quiet around you,
Which is why you always choose
Text © Sara Grimes
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