A Hot Knife

The whole world
feels as though
it wells up in ways
I am uncertain
where or how it begins
or ends, or even,
if there is an ending,
where words spread
like butter with a hot
knife across
a piece of hot bread
you offer,
but I am not hungry,
and no longer want
to eat, with too
many words already
swallowed, digested,
and now sick
and unable to think,
where I question
if any of them
were ever for me,
or just an exercise in writing.

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