It's hard to write against fate,
when the act of writing seals it in.
To be surrounded by books and swallowed
by words is to be swallowed by you
and your face, freshly stamped under
my eyelids - only to find your body
in this body of words, this stack of
letters, these texts and written
sentiments of love.
I was written and raised for you.
My stock comes well-bred: A taste
fit for your mouth, a word for you
to chew, a long sentence on which
you can suck for intense aesthetic
pleasure. Your texts, like arms,
have hemmed me in, and I plant
myself in your texts, your thoughts,
your heart, spilling my words
like seeds across your chest,
and giving in to the very idea of
fate that I have fought so long
and hard against.