National Poetry Month 2021

q: what parts of myself do I judge?

a: negligent anesthesia harvests on torture, the pine of a decline, intricate with rivulets of blood and slurs. I empty my bowels lustful for lustrate and hit the bell once for comfort—ten times for sleep. I fragment the love and the lovers; an errorless fear strikes at 3:33 p.m. and life begins again. a sentence lingers like lyme, —a disease of overthought and underrated time. I break to make a point, create a paragraph into a body—my broken fingers tell you how I love and what I can’t resist. two birds mock each other on a wire, I mimic them inside a pyre swelling into a megrim. the small quietude pulsates between the veins. A cloud catches sight of this and dissipates. we try to nurture the nature of our contuse, a mummified contortion winces at the confine,—freedom falls far into the weight of domination. is judgement what is lacking or what I have yet to consume?

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