A quarter of a life rolled back like injured skin
Blood peeking out from the edges – threatening to tell a little more than I intend to let know.
The rushes of the night, in cold clammy comfort, till sweat wraps my neck and am buried in your arms. This kind of love is a tome.
A quarter of a life rolled away. We have all tried to die, in as much ease a bastard touch would allow, tried to smother to death a part of a reality in wine and breath of yester years.
Learned to say no to things that tease you to live. Over and over – every passing day. Need I be afraid?
Afraid of electric thoughts that rise from below, the rush of blood on my cheeks, the glazy eyes – shut tight against humanity – a quarter of a life rolled away.
For the next quarter that has come, wiped the uterine slime off its back and risen to the occasion in a drunken mess.
There will come a time – when progenitors will know – that in all things pretty – something broken always grows.
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