Do you think you could
Squeeze more juice
Out of my fruit
Than this?
For each experience
There is a word
From my hand -
This is your plan
Of extraction
That I fulfil
By sucking dry
Of life and ill -
All pips are spat 
All pith gone sour
And syphoned -
Till only juice remains
For you to pour into
Your glass
And raise.
You strain my life
Then drink.
All I became is
Consumed back
Within your being
As nourishment
To take shape and grow
A new type
The same.
And the remnant left,
The skin?  
Do you recycle it
For clothing 
Some other poor poet 
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