I don’t have beautiful assumptions or
delicate fingers grazing
the sweet grasses of balladry,
no udder to secrete,
though I am bloated and obscene in this
unnaturally large state of sadness,
a great pungent paean quivers with embers of violence,
and,
to keep quiet,
I cry without embarrassment,
a hot broth of celery, carrots and love exculpates
my fermented hate—
I am loved,
and I adore bleeding onto the naked leg and torso of the one
culpable of such love…
because that is my gift,
everything that lives inside me—crimsoned blush marooned
on the delicate flesh that wraps itself around me
and senses the many men that I’ve tried so hard
to oscillate—
a simple brush of my hair—
a loving hand on my neck—
makes enough salt to make
those many men—
float away
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