A Textual Romance and a Passive Suicide

He plied me with words,
each more sweet than the last.
Every syllable tasted of pomegranate juice,
slipping down my chin and sticking to my lips.
My fingers were coated in the slickness of it;
I licked each digit,
savoring,
velvet tongue to softest skin.
Words like hands sliding over me,
into me,
through me.

He wrote me pages and pages of text;
miles of cursive verse,
extolling every little crevice of our twisting relationship.
The pages wrapped around me;
curling me in a blanket of intellectual dalliances.
His words slipped down my throat scratching all the way;
filling up my belly with swimming letters of jumbled importance.
I put my fingers down my throat and tossed them back up.

I stood in my kitchen with bottles of little words,
taking over the shelves like an invading army.
They spilled down the counters and puddled on the floor,
piling up in the corners, filling up the sink.
I searched through the clutter for milky jars of potent pills instead;
something to quiet the chittering,
and chattering,
of his textual romance,
in my swimming head.
I downed
onetwothreefourfive
and
onetwothreefourfive more;
Yes just like that.
Slid to the ground,
and cradled sentences of longing and love to my chest.
When those words turned bitter and the pomegranate turned to rot;
I poisoned myself in little ways with the love of a troubled man.

When I lie down,
close my eyes,
and commit my little passive suicide,
I sigh terribly;
because this never meant anything,
and words will never explain it.