PICK YOUR POISON

PICK YOUR POISON

“PICK YOUR POISON,”
my friends tell me.
They shout it from rooftops,
bellow from the heart, and when I ask
what the poisons are

They laugh, and tell me this:

The big city, and you
And home, and falling in love headfirst—
—the most dangerous kind, but the most beautiful too.

I ask them if it’s really poison,
because it does not seem like so.
It seems like a gift, to spend that with you.

They laugh, and tell me this:

The big city loving you,
And home becoming limbs and flesh—
—when it is meant to be stone and wooden framework.

I ask what the other poison is,
because I cannot stand the thought
that we are poison.

They laugh, and tell me this:

The other poison is to live,
but not truly live, only move and breathe
but with none of you.

And I decide the way to die
would be in your arms
than shattered glass and brick walls of a house, not a home,
So my poison will be you.

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