A Textual Romance and a Passive Suicide

He plied me with words, each more sweet than the last. Every syllable tasted of pomegranate juice slipping down my chin and sticking to my lips. My fingers were coated in the slickness of it; I licked each digit savoring the tactile response to the languishing touch. Velvet tongue to softest skin. Words like hands sliding over me, into me, through me.

He wrote me pages and pages of text; miles of cursive verse extolling every little crevice of our twisting relationship. The pages wrapped around me; curling me in a blanket of intellectual dalliances. His words slipped down my throat scratching all the way; filling up my belly with swimming letters of jumbled importance. I put my fingers down my throat and tossed them back up.

I stand in my kitchen with bottles of little words taking over the shelves like an invading army. They spill down the counters and puddle on the floor creating a mess; piling up in the corners, filling up the sink. I search through the clutter for milky jars of potent pills instead; something to quiet the chittering and chattering of his textual romance. I down onetwothreefourfive and onetwothreefourfive more; slide to the ground and cradle sentences of longing and love to my chest. When those words turned bitter and the pomegranate turns to rot; I poison myself in little ways with the love of a troubled man.

When I lie down, close my eyes and commit my little passive suicide, I sigh terribly. This never meant anything and words will never explain it.