Most nights the need in me grows sharp
with fiercely wanting claws.
I sip my tea in hopes I can still the nerves
which quake within me.
You see, my siren nestles in a cage
composed of flimsy plywood.
I guess upkeep on a proper cell is difficult
when the heart is cracked?
(Fort Knox my central chamber ain’t.)
Shivering and shaking like some addict
lacking their fix, I write.
Black pools stain the intersecting highways
of my fingerprints as thoughts bubble over.
Have to soothe the savage singing of
desire as it bates my loneliness.
Indeed, I am an inkwell full of longing and
I am the face of the passed over,
homely fickle set.
I am your pauper in faded jeans
and a fitted blouse, malnourished.
I am the woman that craves and craves
and craves what society cannot give—-
Love don’t come cheaply and I can
never seem to afford it.
Instead I compose sentences like
bandages around the fissures of my soul.
I give you poetry because poetry is all
that I can offer during twilight hours.
I gift you pieces of myself in verse
because verse carries my weight with ease.
I grow you stories because stories capture
the nature of imagination so well.
Most nights the need in me whispers
your name in pathetic gurgles.
Crafting rhyme schemes as I do is
my way to silence the monster in me——
It is how I learn to cope with the ghost
and chilling absence of you.