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the pain (the danger?) of falling in love with an artist is hearing your own words sung back at you over the radio seeing your torn-up hearts strewn across a page for the masses to consume too honest and yet not honest enough your story ribbon-twisted up like the words you could never get out and yet it flows so elegantly your most private moments your insides torn up and laid out a banquet of the self for the masses to consume am i a feast? (are you?) is my pain satisfactory? (is yours?) am i the fuel for your fire? (are you?) am i enough for the thousands? (are you?) the cruelty of your words cuts just like your teeth did ripping me open and spilling me out and yet i'm the tinder the petrol on dry grass torn open am i palatable? (are you?) Bottle caps and ring-pulls cashed in Warm air on my skin Past regrets Am i enough? (are you?) Are the words i write as bad as those people read about me In the pages of your books? (are they?) (I hear (i read) those words again and wonder if this was the point of it all. Is the reopening of our old wounds enough?)
22.06
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