Monday, February 20, 2017

how can the world 
contain so much
feeling?
how does it not bruise
and soften like a peach.
taste like a peach, 
pick a space on my shoulder blade
decide it is the start
of where i was touched.
decide it is ripe. 

the honeybees under the tablecloth 
stilled and pheromone drunk, all wanting. 
at the wet peak of heaven, i think of your long hair dipped in ink
bleeding into me, 
pick a space on my shoulder blade
decide it is the start. 
also, real quick, 
what science project is this?
are you searching for the carnage?
it's not hidden.

the bathtub is stained blue and

it is spring,
i seem to survive everything.

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