I sink inside myself, into poems—

Into mud of words to avoid the hot sun.
The inevitability beats down and I thirst;
I make promises to poetry about growth:

I promise to eat cake in front of the fridge
and curse instead of putting my head
in the oven. I promise to splurge on adjectives,
not love. I promise to chew up all my letters
as not to forget.

I whisper to the books and Anne laughs at me,
dares me to get meticulous.
She’s waiting for me
to go mad properly. I promise her
to cut myself up and out.Remove myself completely.
I promise to shut up and read.

And read, and reread for clarity, then write
without purpose. I promise to cauterize
the doubt until it’s an ink blot blood clot
And I am soaking in fear of
What might be written next— I choke on the sweetness
and the ache.

I have never known what love is.

I have never been so angry.