Sometimes,
I have thoughts in my head,
that do not want to be let out.
They wish to stay,
safe and warm and secret,
in
my head.
But you,
you push them out,
like unwanted flies in the house.
Like ticks, they cling on to my brain.
Yet, you find them,
and hunt them,
and take your sharp, sharp, sharp
and spear them.
They,
those secret thoughts,
fall like soldiers in a losing battle.
In a losing war.
They burrow into the skin of my imagination,
and grit their teeth
as you
with your sharp, sharp, sharp
as you
cut them
in
half.
Eventually,
they,
those warm, secret thoughts,
they die.
They wither
and fade
and fall.
And now
they,
those secret thoughts,
are squeezed out
like pus
as it oozes
out of a popped blister.
But those dead shells of those secret thoughts,
they are filled,
like champagne
like wine.
They are filled with tiny
itty-bitty bits,
of those secret thoughts.