I pump in ink

I am a poetry chick

I pump in ink.

Like the Egyptians and their papyrus

I tattoo your skin.

My spit

Covers you,

Bathes you,

Warms you,

Conforts you,

Saves you,

Blankets you.

My spit is my word,

My love for you.

I'm a lyric girl as

You know

I am a poetry chick.

You can come with me in

My mouth

Warm and deep

Like three syllable words

Are Moist

And they spit

At you.

Inside of you,

It erupts.

Like a melodic volcano that

Caresses you in a way

Which makes you

UNCOMFORTABLE.

I'm a poetry chick,

Find me a rooster to lay.

Find those eggs full of

WISDOM

And brake the shells.

Slippery,

A zero calorie home,

Transparent and full,

You are a bubble girl, my friend.

There is room for you under my membrane.

A.

Back yard

She decided she wasn't feeling well.

She left.

He left holding her hand and she

Felt the tight grasp was cutting the air.

It was a normal routine,

Choreographed dynamics.

Maybe she had drunk too much

Or maybe that corpse under their bed had

Started to rot

To smell so strong that had

Been all

Inhaled by her. She was breathing in death.

They didn't know who it was, as

They just found the body in their back yard.

She wanted to call the police but

He decided they should keep it.

It'll be safer with us.

Where can we put it?

Under the bed, it's too tall to try to make it sit in a closet

And our clothes will smell.

Late at night, she imagined a soft,

Soft breathing in

And breathing out...

She had stopped sleeping,

It reeks in here, please, let's just throw it away.

You can't just dump a corpse,

Are you crazy?

You are crazy, you are fucking bonkers.

I don't know how we even thought saving a corpse from

Its natural rotting life was ever a good idea.

I like how it smells, it breathes life into me.

Don't you think?

I can't sleep. I'm not feeling well.

I wan't to go.

And there was no going anywhere. She had already gone.

She was lying under the bed. Breathing in

Breathing out.

A