Note:  I wrote this a while ago when I was feeling particularly frustrated by my inability to say what I wanted in a way that communicated my thoughts and sentiments. 

My feelings are too big

to be digested

I grind and chop them up

into words and sentences

and lay them out for

you to read.

But still, the flesh is old

like my wounds.

I put it in the pot,

add water, veggies too.

And cook these my thoughts

until they are well done

and easy to swallow.

And now they’re bland,

lack spice and pique.

They do not affront.

You spit out my stew

“This is crap!”

you say.

I tear the strips from off my breast and feed them

to you raw.

You fall into my embrace and looking up

like a babe in mother’s arms

you suckle on my blood

And like a well fed infant

you close your eyes and smile.