It’s warm on my tongue like the
blood slipping down your throat,
even though you tried your best to
let it coagulate before the fall.
Empty in your heart and your promises,
you must have tripped over your old
unfulfilled virginity—and as for me?
I’m content to sweep the chalk dust
from tall doorways. I’ve been with you
since patriarchal death dances, since the
breeding rituals practiced by drunkards, since
suicide note courses and shotgun conventions,
and while you might not have recognized
my gaping eyes among the masses, be aware
that you were silent. The least you could have done
was tried to talk me down from the fall.
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