“I make out with my language”
Is what I described my writing as.

Sometimes I think it’s the truth.
I look at my words
and I, with laced fingers,
attempt to tilt its chin up
and give it a lavish kiss.

Sometimes I think it’s more like
microwaving a cookie.
An oatmeal one
where there’s no chocolate to melt
but just raisins to burn.

Raisins are already cooked and dried
the difference is,
there are not ashes yet.

My passion is similar.
My poetry is often dried
and cooked in a boiler of cliches
but I know it can’t burn.
Because I have microwaved it enough
for long enough
to know.

If my love could burn
I’d already be a supernova.
If my passion could spit flames
I would’ve burnt the world already,
for you
and for you
and for myself.

If I could cake my tears like rust
I would’ve chose not to.

Because I can see the beauty in burnt raisins,
but not in rotting corpses.