I deal in diction, in dried ink
words finely chopped into
a stew of sentence structure and
a plot, should you find yourself
needing a little reprieve.
Though what I convey is
concrete and moist with life
your eager eyes enlighten it
to a heavenly post of the most
You make me feel like dancing.
Child, do not worry about
the thorns at the corner of every page,
slitting the red berry juice from your
Just don’t let your blood
obscure my precious words.
My dry limbs are instructions to living,
a monologue deprived of stage directions.
You, however, can melt my words
into that salty gray fluid which makes
your tongue curl and your fingers twitch.
I have been dead a long time. But you
dutifully uphold the illusion, propping me
into the wet, churning world. Your only advantage lies
in which body part you were born from.
Even while being slowly eaten on the shelf,
I remain stained to you, another victim
of the virus.
“Mine” is a possessive pronoun.