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nascire

@nascire / nascire.tumblr.com

wattle honey suckle | nsciah@gmail.com
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lifeinpoetry
She sleeps all day dreams of you in both worlds, tills the blood and and out of uterus, wakes up smelling of zinc. Grief sedated by orgasm, orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the womanI love you so much wrap your legs around me pull me in pull me in pull me in pullme in pull mein pullmein. Sometimes when he had her nipple in his mouth she’d whisper                 Allah – this too is a form of worship. It smelt like flowers the last time she buried the friend with the kind eyes. The last time she buried her face into his mattress, frangipani. Her hips grind, pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves. Whenever he pulls out:                  loss.

Warsan Shire, “Grief Has Its Blue Hands In Her Hair,” Her Blue Body (via lifeinpoetry)

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