New york wants to pull me by the teeth into it's ribs. I don't know how i feel about this-
will i still be a blooming flower, from your favourite chair?
New york wants a dead bird on the palm of my hand. Warrior, perhaps.
It wants me as a warrior,
but i am soft in growling and sometimes i slip water from my mouth to yours, just to tell you i love you.
New york doesn't want warriors in their own right, a butterfly on the right eye, removing it like a eyelash,
it doesn't want that.
New york wants me to grow rooted in the bathroom floor,
my hair my weapon around my face like the constellation in your eyes. My arms ready to snap.
Starving artist, in a way.
Madonna squirming in my heart, yes.
New york wants my ears, arms, legs; heart in a jar. I do not know how i feel about this, since my heart is in your mouth, my ears cradled in your chest, my arms a tree & my legs walking to you.
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