I’m thinking of
tearing you down;

you’re little more than
paper poster
covering up
old and dirty walls.

I’m thinking of
the white, hot, chewing sound
of bookflesh when it’s pulled
from its binding.

I’m thinking of
destroying you
in the solid world —

I have already
ripped you
to pieces
in my mind
and let you flutter down,

of my ruined self,
of my volcano heart,

blotting out the sun.

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