Po it up, po it up
Watch it all fall out.
Throw it up, throw it up
til the inkpen run out.

You should have known that I was trouble when you found out I was a poet.


I take double shots of the ink til my eyes black out and I throw up on the page.
I get filthy drunk when that ink gets in me so I might stumble my way on the stage.
You should have known that I would have a lot of shit to say when you found out I was a poet.
You love to try to blow my back out but never expected the backfire when I blew your brains out.
Literally and figuratively.

See there’s something about Bri, just like there was something about Mary and Keisha from Belly that got you obsessed with the cinematic of me.

When I counted the letters in your full name, I laughed.
6-6-6, first, middle and last.
The devil finds work in idle hearts so you tried to dance with mine for a year and half
but met your match.
If you would have told me a nigga in glasses who had a closet full of plaid shirts would make me like this, I would have laughed.
What I loved the most about you was that you were more than what met the eyes. Ambitious, smart, funny. Determined to be more than what was envisioned in your mind.
To me, you were forbidden fruit while I was your edible arrangements.
When I laid in your bed, it became the garden of Eden because you loved putting me in your mouth and planting your seeds along my fruits.
I’m sure when you reminisce on me, you can still taste me in your Adam’s apple. I know you hate it. My lips healed and wounded you at the same time.
My tongue became the Neosporin to your sins.
I wasn’t your Eve, I was Lilith.
The deeper, darker fear men have of women and female sexuality.
You can’t resist me.
Even when we’re outside the bedroom, my presence makes you cum to me.

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