The words are sweet and watery you gorge 

yourself on them. Euphoria is instant inside this 

inner monologue when we are poetry and

poetry is addictive. We call this The Sapphic’s Jumble.

A Woman rises in the distance. I lived that

the words are poetry and 

poetry is addictive. The woman is addictive poetry. The

woman is very undecided, very loose and very 

beautiful, lying on your bed in silence. Sometimes 

you loved her as you loved addictive

poetry. 

The Woman was lying in your arms and her

breathing sped up and her eyes were blooming

pale tempests. You think you loved her, maybe you

didn’t love her. All this because of a closeted girl, 

silly thing. Steady your breathing and learn to 

think again. Push aside the clawing and screaming memories 

making up the throbbing Jumble.

Addictive poetry in the mad world. 

Chained to an internal monologue 

that smells like violets. 

This is what disorder is. She loved you, and she

loved you not in A Sapphic Jumble. The state is 

a disorder, it causes disorder. Disorder is chaos;

we are chaos. 

The Sapphic chaos.

Here is where you fight to? delineate the Lines;

Delineate the Addictive Poetry

Delineate The Sapphic’s Jumble

She loved you and maybe she never

loved you but either way. 

Punctuation is for fools. 

Punctuation is for Women of Logic.

You exist beyond Logic.

The existence of Your Lover

The existence of Your Presence

causes (a beautiful chaos)

Take it or leave it 

in The Sapphic’s Jumble. 

You can-a-can’t-can’t think,

till

We lie in Insanity

As we lie in Beauty