"I Need to Talk To You"

I milk the morning for what it’s worth,
and soon the sun slips on its own rays,
down that drooping frown of a semi-
circle we call the sky.

Another bath, another Plath
poem summing up my dreary day.
“The clear vowels rise like balloons”
But I’m silent, I fall

Into love, then spit right out
the gritty bits of my heart,
which rose like the sun, like bile,
balloons seeking escape.

Your vowels, gooey moans,
melted my name apart.
Chemical reactions like that
can’t be pieced back right.

Is my name my own?
Or is it yours now?
Will you ever say it again?
I hope so.

I hope it tastes
like consonants.
Makes your breath cut
short.

This hurts me as much
as I hope it hurts you.