Eating My Words, or: What's On the Menu In Suburbia Tonight
Chewing glass shreds my tongue
and I keep swallowing.
Ice trails the shards of iridescent
anger all the way down
shining red morsels
lodge in my stomach.
I can never take those words back.
you clean the toilet.
why don’t you.
I'm not one for short poems, but I needed to write. I wonder if I should play with this, play with food images, word metaphors?