We keep gnawing at roots
sopping in alcohol.
I am full. You still starve.
You want me bath-soaked,
I need you tree hollow.
So I tear at your bark skin
until you bleed spoiled sugar.
Open my fingers and peel sunset
leaves from my palms.
Spit the pulp from my tongue,
lay it flat into perfect white rectangles,
press out every last drop of rain.
Let sunlight inhale what’s left.
Even your teeth hate
how little I want to kiss you.
As you wither, I fold you in half,
crease your edges. Nose you forward.
Refuse to watch what happens next.
First published in Paper Plane Pilots.
Sarah Thursday 