I want to murder you and eat your brain,
so you won’t write anymore, and
I can have your words in my mouth.

I can’t decide if I would sauté it
in a cast iron skillet and finish it off in the oven,
or slurp up the wiggles like a bowl of soft noodles. 

But I do want you dead by my hand.
I can’t keep chipping at this wall
with these jack hammer fingers,

digging flesh from the hole in my face,
just to find another muse
to muse about.

Thinking that if I pass through this
thin sheet of skull, I won’t find you
in bed at two in the afternoon

wishing for someone to rescue you
when you know god damn well how to walk,
and the flesh of this door is cut wide open.