Purge Writing

I kept you at the back of my neck
Like a bird,
You picking the indecencies
From my shoulders.

You hid in my hair sometimes
(red like sodomy,
                    soft,
you suffocating)

You'd tell me what to say;
Nothing.
Because you know better than anyone
That I write better than I speak.

But now you're at the back of my throat
Spilling poetry like syrup into my gut
And I try not to gag.