H for your hands
In between my legs
Writing me a catastrope theory
While you speak to me
In an even voice
About the state of the weather
And things such.
Poets must be the worst con artists
Thinking no one can see through the ruse;
Great poems are not a metaphor for the bruise,
But the great bruise itself.
The nine months you slept inside you mother
While she didn't catch a wink
Are offended - as is your mother,
When you dare let some man
Convince you for second
That you are in anyway less than him.
You are someone's labor of love, darling
You better start acting like it.
A mouth turned raw
A thick tongue turned slack
I sat with a bottle for company
Denouncing myself over the naivete
That, I could ever purge myself of you.
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