to the sides, nooks and crannies of my mind
like baked pasta burnt onto the side of a pan.
Hungry, I had made a meal out of my mind
and left it baking in the oven for too long.
I think Obsession ate me, scraping at my surface
like a spatula, delving deep within the cheesy
sinews which stick to it clinging. I’m singing.
Can I be obsessed with you, Obsession?
Part of me lies in the belly of the big soft pink
beast, digesting, slowly falling in love with the
stomach juices eating me alive—Stockholm
Syndrome. I love being another’s sustenance.
I love myself insofar as I love the smile
of Obsession licking his lips. Red lips rifting
noodle apart. I love being chewed to pieces.
Does this please you? Does this appease you?
Do I satisfy your needs? My strands twirl
around your fork, looping once, twice;
each noodle nonetheless finite. All my mind
is you. And still the remainder burnt onto the pan
remains.
Francis Luo is a student writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. When he is not writing, he is often consuming an eclectic range of music or composing his own.
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