Illiterate

It's not litterary Gold, but it is something.DAY #3 OF THE PRETTY POEM PROJECT!

***

It's midnight and I'm writing love letters to the woman who raised me.
It's midnight and every limb has a story.
Broken into small fractions,
Like chapters rapped around my waist.
I read my lips like the bible,
And I burn them just the same.

Because my body is unworthy
Of your words
Your love is my language
So fluently spoken
Every syllable sounding
As the patterns revolve through
My teeth like floss.

It's midnight and I'm watching
The sentences
Trickled down the page,
Upside my leg as it circles the drain
In a dance known to the vulgar kind

If only you knew how many drafts
These wrists have endured
My collar bone aching with riddles
My hands blackened in the ink
Of these eyelids.

It's midnight and I'm reading
My fingertips
In fragmented run-on's
Oxymoron’s, metaphors
Similes
And watching your reaction
As it all goes down the sink.

You'll never read what I had to say
Because I loved you so much it was unbearable to speak

The treason it took

Its midnight and my lungs are collapsing
Bending into the tar I breathed
For 14 years and leaning
Into your grammatical errors
You are my net to fall into.

So morning come,
These words shall be gone as the tide,
And I will still be here
Muttering clashed up letters
Like mashed potatoes.
Gnawing on the sentences that were

You'll never know but what I wrote.
But neither will I,
You see,
My body is illiterate.