i feel stirred inside.
every time I do something,
i feel stirred.
is it my perfectly imperfect mixture
between spoiled cream
and lumps of unbroken brown sugar
sitting dormant at the bottom of me?
do you sip too quickly and do i burn your tongue?
shall i hold mine?
roll up and win.
win me over,
spill me on your shirt
and while you’re at it
pour me out entirely into pieces
so that i will remain a mere cold shade of concrete
and no longer