tenant

A poem about obsession that feels like possession.

I didn’t fall in love.
I swallowed her. Whole.
She’s lodged somewhere behind my ribs,
gnawing her way out when I sleep.

I don’t dream anymore,
I twitch.
Whole-body seizures of wanting
like the moon licking my spine
and she told it where to bite.

She is not beside me.
She is inside me,
taking her sweet time
tearing down the wallpaper
and reupholstering the organs.

I chewed through my own wrist once
to see if she’d crawl out
but no.
She likes it here.
She’s rearranging the furniture.

I don’t want a kiss.
I want her pulse on my tongue,
her bones in my pockets,
her breath trapped in a jar beneath my bed.

She lives in my stomach now.
I feed her everything I used to love.
She spits out what isn’t hers.

Sometimes she climbs up my throat
just to scream obscenities at the moon,
then slides back down laughing,
dragging her nails
along my windpipe like wind chimes.

She rewired my heart
into a vending machine,
stocks it with her laughter.
Moans.
Sighs.
No refunds. No coins.
Just blood and want and whatever was left of my sleep.

If I die,
don’t bother with a coffin.
Just crack me open like a piñata
and let her stumble out
drunk, radiant,
and pissed I ran out of poetry.

---

More soon.

---