To Read and Not Care How the Books Come Out

Words hid in dense weeds. Their eyes
Peeked out like the eyes of mice.
They seemed to want to be coaxed.

I did not want to coax them.
I was fine with just their eyes.
But you know how words can be.

Words want seeds. Words want a drink.
Words want to see death up close.
So up they come to see me.

I eat them. Now they are me.
Or I am them. Who wins, then?
We are these words, all of them.