Heart Hoarder

I tuck my words for him behind my uvula, where even you can’t reach them.
I am an over boiling pot of love poems,
lust poems.
I’ll tell you about every boy and girl I’ve wanted to plunge my fingertips into,
to see if I could dig out a reason to keep going.
But you can’t have this one.
I’ll wrap him so tightly in metaphors you won’t be able to tell where he starts,
and I begin.
My lips are sealed around his memory and you
can’t have him.
My flat mate knocked on my door last night,
told me to keep it down,
his voice leaks out from underneath my hands when I hold them on my body.
It whispers:
Good girl.
Come here you.
So now I sleep with my hands wrapped into my lovers hair and cross my fingers,
hope to die,
this isn’t a love story.
This is the story of the small hissing thing in me,
which hoards hearts


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