“Come,” I say to my demons
Beckoning them closer
“Let me make poetry from you.”
I will turn your skin into paper,
Sharpen your bones to a point
And write your blood into beauty.
I’ll bind the spine with your hair.
Perfectly too tight.
Dried and thin
Will be the cover
Cradling bindings and all.
And with your teeth I’ll make a lock
Strong, sturdy, and pearly white
A dead, bare smile
Biting back red words
A warning to those that get too close
“Would you like to be my poetry too?”