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.