Making Poetry

“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.

Your muscles

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?”


Photo byΒ Jeff SmithΒ onΒ Unsplash

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