April 2013


your religion rests inside of me,

reverence reserved for hands woven through hair,

your worried limb and furrowed brow above

my mouth full of bad blood and the unfortunate truth of you

a sexually transmitted fear made manifest and meaningless

in your many mini moves

back and back and back

back and back and back to the wall you crouch against

always.

what kind of day is it,

when waking reminds limbs to ache

and memories to surface?

what kind of day is it,

when metal mouth meets meticulous desire

and leaves only blood behind?

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