Pesky limbic system

 I took two extra tart cherry

capsules to relax myself last

night because I was fighting

& flighting too much over

the woman who put herself

inside me last week. my therapist

tells me love is supposed to

be a remedy. my grandmother

tells me love is supposed to

live in a body. love only

occasionally enters me &

when she does I am no emptier

than a full stop at the end of a self-

help book. emptiness is still

loveliness. loveliness is still

the wrong word. how am I

supposed to concentrate my

feelings into the rind of a dead

animal & reincarnate if my feelings

are always non-consensually

mating with each other &

making me hungry for heavenly

harm? how am I supposed to

ever get to sleep again knowing

the skin of a single stupid fruit

supports me improves me nourishes me

indirectly increases the serotonin

in me more than the succulent

flesh of love. My love?

Amy Marguerite (she/her) is a queer poet and quintessential Cancerian/INFP/ Enneagram type four based in Pōneke. She is currently completing her MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. Her poetry can be found in Food Court, Salty, Milly Mag, Poetry Shelf, Bad Apple, and on her blog when it happens to be up.