So then, you take a toothpick, some tweezers
of course you don’t want to clean your teeth,
you just want to tear yourself apart.
Building this small little heart
made out of consolidated dust,
come on, now, you can do better
you can build yourself from scratch
from the blood that has built up in clots,
every place where you’ve been touched.
I was a boy who thought he could taste colors,
smell his dreams— vanilla and flowers.
I was a boy who put his blood in music—
playing his piano during the night.
I was a boy who crashed like a tornado—
bit the hand that fed him,
the hand bit him back.