Hunting Poems
She's hunting poems. There's a taste in her mouth, sweet and salty with too much heat, words on her tongue, burning, bubbling, sparking, exploding. She loves his words, devours them whole, tearing pages with her teeth, ripping out spines with her bare hands. Destruction in the consumption. Hers, all hers. Her body littered with the detritus of fonts and fiction pulped paper cardstock and ribbons. She is drooling ink dripping antonyms from the corners of her mouth. A pool of punctuation covers her feet leaking through her toes as she marks a path of poetry with footprints in italics. Her body shakes semi-colons leak from her fingers as she throws her arms overhead shooting exclamation marks into the fading autumnal sky. Ellipses litter the ground where she stands, marking a path to the bench where the tattered broken shells of his writing abound Spent depleted used. That's what words are for, she says. To be used abused articulated manipulated. Word...