Poetry is read with the muscles and the gut
Crusty ruined hearts and blood-rushed staccato
Of constant breaks and starts
Love isn’t contained by scalloped edges
it seeps through the commas and lettertogethers.
We bleed out on the floor
Me writer you reader
But it’s always been for love
And blindness.

Will you give me back my words when you leave?

04/19/2021

Posted on 04/19/2021
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