The last few times.
Every time I wrote I borrowed some love.
I stole some apples from someone else’s basket
I stole some crystals from someone else’s goblet
I sneaked like a thief and sipped on someone else’s fire
Now I am crumbling like a humiliated question mark
Sorry. I steal because I starve
I walk with watchful eyes from one pyre to another
And steal the flesh that falls from burning hearts
My vicarious children
Their rainbows and fishtanks
Something to keep me alive.
Some poem or
Someone else’s privilege for sanity
Someone else’s dreams
Some comforts…sleep and otherwise.