Attachment Theory | poem

you're syrup that's too sweet
for me. our souls are stuck, (without
permission) wound and bound
by cobwebs, curly q’s, dust clumps. but
i don’t want the kind of love
you can crush
with bare hands. i want
the good stuff, (not over-the-counter) the kind
that weaves pages
in leather-bound bowels.

all i have is sap
for paint, blood
for rouge, and glue
to keep my eyes shut
when they’d rather look
at you.

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