This work is tender, so I sharpen my bones, my canines, my stones. I wish to float in your head like a sandstorm in the desert oasis leading to my home. I think I wish to be no more. No more a phantom in your opera of skeletal poems that rhyme like toes. You — you are asleep with our issues inside the blanket we used to call our own, I'm a god, a dog outside the door howling to be warm to my bones, to be near your toes.

 

My heart is not breaking, not breaking in your molars and morals and courts. I'm supposed to be the pet, the beast that guards your door. But it is too cold now, the lights are off, you don't believe in christmas but you were supposed to be my santa clause. There is a full stop. So you appear like a memory floating in the placental waters that tear at my throat, a mirage in my father's farmland, a lie in my mother's womb.

 

You appear like an em dash from gpt’s pirated homes, my violent coughs give you nights so forlorn —

 

I

Wish

To

Be

No

More.

 

I

Wish

To

Be

More.