Response To Mock's Poem 'Irony'

I can’t let this anger
Dissolve along my bones
Drip along my hip
Settle at my feet so I can’t move when I see you
Like being trapped in wet cement.
When I’m overwhelmed, I step outside
Swallowing the dark that pours out
From the wounds I slashed in the air.
And return to finish my poem before I let you touch my writing.
Imprint your voice rhythm, warmth, your design over mine tear apart the embellishments and start at my foundation.

The pages of my journals
Are sticky, matted with scarlet bled out from the words that hurt too much to write.
I want to go back to when this ink was black when your voice was weaved into my mind with baby’s breath flowers and wet grass not poetry.
I lick ink from the tip of my pen with the words as my
lover.
Tongue dry behind my teeth stripped to the core of my words
And my voice scratched raw across the page.
There’s no need for the words you think I should write.