Open 

By Dylan Kull 

Kiss me.

Spit on me.

Show me the scent of your breath.

Let me taste the salt of swallowed tears,

The booze that stands guard

against the ghouls

That battered your insides with bruises

But stopped at your tongue.

A hint of pencil paint,

From the tool you chewed on

and danced between your fingers

While you extracted engaging imagery

from the fabric of the mundane.

Mold me into the sieve by

which you sort through

The sand of the condition

And pull metaphors through my mouth

To share epiphanies

You could never hope to understand.

But maybe they will.

And maybe when you pass me along

They will entrust in you their secrets

Disperse the damage they’ve been dealt

And maybe their blood will bandage the open wound

you are constantly trying to fill

With poetry.