National Poetry Month 2021

I’ve always longed for a partner, not a village

A man with good hands and a heart made of whatever mine lacked

As I scour the depths of these cuts, 

I begin to pull the nails from my torments, 

these torrents of pinpricked 


half-drunk/half exploded

into the petulance of an emaciated aperture

dribbling with the slaver of whatever sat

empty in the abdomen

What are seasons in the great width of time?

Trees know the answer, 

the heart grows burdensome 

and waits to ejaculate onto itself

to feel its expanse contract into a ball of muscle

loved by the poet but disregarded by its occupant

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