Pica

I grate the tips of my teeth
along a hard, fine, powdered line,
a solid tube of white;
this is the cigarette that ghosts smoke.
My teeth aren't as white as this,
but maybe they will be influenced.
My stomach growls with envy for blackboards
and hopscotch pavements
and I find myself standing in post office queues
with three packs of my very own candy sticks
that children should have snatched out of
wondering hands.
You might think you understand a craving
when you think of a chilled glass
of white wine on a Friday night,
or you think about your lover's earlobe
taunting you to bite it.
But you do not understand how my
stomach yearns for these
bitter sticks of compact dust.

I want to draw around us,
a crime scene-line embrace,
so we cannot distinguish where I end
and you begin.
Call me magpie,
I will consume this unfood
and when my hunger is slaked
I will white your face with chalk.