The words are sweet and watery you gorge
yourself on them. Euphoria is instant inside this
inner monologue when we are poetry and
poetry is addictive. We call this The Sapphic’s Jumble.
A Woman rises in the distance. I lived that
the words are poetry and
poetry is addictive. The woman is addictive poetry. The
woman is very undecided, very loose and very
beautiful, lying on your bed in silence. Sometimes
you loved her as you loved addictive
poetry.
The Woman was lying in your arms and her
breathing sped up and her eyes were blooming
pale tempests. You think you loved her, maybe you
didn’t love her. All this because of a closeted girl,
silly thing. Steady your breathing and learn to
think again. Push aside the clawing and screaming memories
making up the throbbing Jumble.
Addictive poetry in the mad world.
Chained to an internal monologue
that smells like violets.
This is what disorder is. She loved you, and she
loved you not in A Sapphic Jumble. The state is
a disorder, it causes disorder. Disorder is chaos;
we are chaos.
The Sapphic chaos.
Here is where you fight to? delineate the Lines;
Delineate the Addictive Poetry
Delineate The Sapphic’s Jumble
She loved you and maybe she never
loved you but either way.
Punctuation is for fools.
Punctuation is for Women of Logic.
You exist beyond Logic.
The existence of Your Lover
The existence of Your Presence
causes (a beautiful chaos)
Take it or leave it
in The Sapphic’s Jumble.
You can-a-can’t-can’t think,
till
We lie in Insanity
As we lie in Beauty