Words my own

I want words my own.
I want them mine,
olive-tinted pearls
of lime and plum.

I want to pierce through
the mucus drops
with an bone awl
salvaged from
my splintered thumb.

I will treasure them
when strung on a strand
of my hair, conscientiously
plucked from a strange pillow
and I will wear these
words around my neck,
where they can be clutched
in times of muffled confusion.

I want words
my own but more.
I want you to sink your teeth
into the shoulder of
what I have written
and I want to speak flesh
that will bite with dull teeth
or punch with knuckles

I want to come upon
a wall graffiti-ed with my
hand-writing, come upon
it with surprise and find you
nodding there, familiar,
in recognition.

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